Forever in a Glass Darkly
by AmputeeTrainee
Summary: Surviving your peers aboard the zeppelin fleet isn't easy. Cruel practical joke or not, Winkle finds herself being starved out by Zorin. Needing to keep up appearances to avoid demotion or worse, she makes a deal with the Doktor for meals—how bad could it be? (W.I.P.)
1. Chapter 1

It was supposed to be a check-up, nothing more. Standard procedure, as the Doktor regularly monitored all of his creations for defects. Winkle had submitted to examination countless times, long having grown used to it as one of his first major successes. Perhaps it was the familiarity that made her notice the tremor in his hands. Honestly, it was impossible to miss.

Seated on the gurney and draped in sagging scrubs, Winkle silently watched as Dok removed a tongue depressor from its wrapper only to accidentally drop it on the ground. Sighing, he reached for another, opened it, then dropped it too. Jaw rigid, Dok reached for yet another only to knock the jar over, depressors and all, where it shattered on the dirty tiled floor. Teeth gritting in fury, he slammed a fist onto the gurney. Jostled by the rattle, Winkle swayed and smiled at his quick temper.

"Something wrong~?" she asked.

"Nothing that concerns you!" he shot back, head snapping up to glare at her. Beneath strange lenses, dark circles rung his eyes like bruises. With a frown, he continued, "Now, hold your tongue."

"Yes, I will have to if this keeps up," she agreed, glancing at the broken jar with a nasty smile.

Face pinching at the remark, he ordered, "Stop being so wicked."

"But you made me this way," she reminded, feet swinging coyly.

"No, I improved you. And when no more could be done, I gave you teeth to match your abysmal personality," Dok corrected.

She flashed a wide grin at that, earning a scowl from the other. Bending down, he retrieved an opened depressor and held it expectantly before her. Lips curling back in disgust, Winkle glanced at the gross, blood-encrusted floor then back to the stern Doktor.

"Isn't that unsanitary?"

"It's not as if you will get an infection, nor does that sassy mouth of yours deserve any better," Dok chided, face grim.

"I was teasing before," she said with a pout.

"And see what that got you?" he pressed, waving the depressed. "Now, open."

Winkle frowned but let her jaw go slack, tongue lolling out.

"Ah~" he reminded.

" _Ahhhhh_ ," she droned.

He hummed once, then removed the stick. Jaw closing with a click, she waited for the next order, but it didn't come. Instead, magnified eyes stared down until Winkle started to fidget.

"Yes?" she began, giving another smile.

"Why haven't you been feeding properly?" he asked.

Not expecting the direct question, her mouth opened, but no words came. Caught off guard, Winkle launched into the first story that came to mind.

"I'll have you know I made a lovely meal of-"

"— _No lies_ ," he hissed.

She glanced at the floor and locked serrated teeth together. Perhaps starting with the truth would have been better, despite how embarrassing it was.

Winkle worried her toes and began, "Zorin won't let me into the mess hall."

"What did you do?" he pressed, arching an eyebrow.

She grimaced at the icy tone and answered, "Nothing!"

His eyebrow climbed skeptically higher.

Shoulders slumping, Winkle sighed and admitted, "I was singing in the shower stalls, and we got into an argument."

" _And_?"

She scuffed. Shooting him an incredulous look, Winkle lied, "That's all!"

Dok gave a doubtful hum, mouth set in a thin line. Behind lustrous lenses, Winkle knew his sharp eyes were scrutinizing her, so she gave a doleful glance in return. Pouting overtly, she tried to appear innocent. It didn't seem to work. Too excessive. The Doktor's jaw clenched and nostrils flared as he sucked air through clenched teeth.

"Get that sorry look off your face!" he snapped, stabbing the depressor in her direction. The outburst made Winkle drop the pitiful act with a start. Drawing a calmer breath, Dok added, "And yes, I've heard talk of your…performances. They take up hours. A waste of water."

"Don't tell me you're siding with her," she whined.

"Merely an observation," he said offering a shrug. "Your relationship with Obersturmführer Blitz is your's alone. Just play nicely. I can't promise I'd bother putting you back together— _too many pieces_."

"Tell that to her!" Winkle fumed.

"Watch your tone!" Dok snarled back. Deflated, Winkle bit the end of her tongue and tasted copper. When blood began to redden her lips, he continued, "And it is not my problem, be grateful I'm not expelling you from my infirmary for wasting my time with such a pitiful story!"

"You asked," Winkle muttered sourly. Crossing her arms tightly, she felt the inward curve of her starved stomach and asked, "How could you tell I haven't been feeding anyway?"

Mouth twisting into a frown, Dok replied, "For one, your complexion is deathly pale, and so are your gums and esophagus. Your veins appear almost translucent, indicating no new blood intake. You've also lost weight since your last physical, which shouldn't happen considering–"

"—But you didn't weigh—"

"— _Don't interrupt_!" he clipped and whacked her on the forehead with the depressor before finishing. "Considering the constant supply of nutrition that should be available. Just look at you! Your cheekbones are far too prominent and your abdomen," he paused and tutted at her. Suddenly his hands pulled at the strings knotting down the side of baggy scrubs, and she jumped as latex fingers prodded pasty skin. "I can count every rib!"

Winkle scowled and shrugged away from prying hands.

"It's not polite to talk about a woman's weight," she mumbled, pulling the scrubs closed.

"And it's one of your duties as Obersturmführer to remain in peak condition at all times," he reminded and gave her nose a sharp flick. "Quit sulking."

Face scrunching, Winkle huffed and clicked pointed teeth together as her eyes fell to stare at the floor once more. She had no reply. Dok was correct and cut right to the wick of the problem; she'd upset Zorin, and the pettiness between them had disrupted her ability to perform at optimal efficiency. Worst of all, it was embarrassingly easy for Zorin to keep the punishment going. None onboard, save perhaps Günsche on a moonlit evening, could overpower the monstrous woman physically, and the hellish illusions she dug up haunted her victims long after she'd finished toying with them.

"Get dressed," he ordered, turning from the gurney and walking away. "I have another examination scheduled. Considering what you've told me, it would be best if you left before she arrived."

With that said, Dok headed further into the gloomy clinic. The outline of two separate doors loomed in the dimness, and he headed toward the left: Cold Storage. He yanked the lever down, and the old iron bolted door swung open on rusty hinges. Entering the room swiftly, Dok closed it behind him with a clang.

Dismissed, Winkle began to dress: suit, tie, and bluchers all tucked away under the gunnery. When she'd nearly finished, the old door screeched open again, and footsteps sounded behind her. She turned to see the Doktor coming toward her with hands folded behind his back.

"Yes?" she asked, anticipating another scolding as he stopped before her.

Dok silently held out his hand. After looking at gesture uncertainty, Winkle did the same.

"Beggars can't be choosers," he criticized and dropped a blood pack on her palm.

Her eyes grew round in surprise having never expected a ration.

"Thank you!" she gasped.

Happily cuddling the cold bag against a cheek, she bounced on the balls of her feet until Dok cleared his throat.

"Do what's necessary to solve this, it's unbecoming," he continued, frown deepening as she kept swaying with the blood pack cradled to her face. Seemingly tired of her silliness, he folded hands behind his bloodstained back once more, turned on his heel, and began to walk away only to pause. Head tilting in thought, he added as though speaking to the empty room, "I'd advise against direct interaction, though, you weren't made for it. And knowing Obersturmführer Blitz, it would exacerbate the issue."

"…Okay," Winkle replied to the cryptic advice.

Not offering a glance back, Dok nodded stiffly once and walked away. Dismissed, Winkle left, not even out the door before she'd drained the pack.

* * *

Notes:

This is a silly drabble that became a full-fledged fic. The story follows Winkle's perspective aboard the zeppelin fleet before the events of Hellsing Ultimate, the creation of Schördiner, and the addition of the Valentine brothers-so like 1970's - 80's? Eh? The fic is mostly just character interaction, speculation about what life is like aboard the zeppelin fleet, and my bullshit interpretations. Also created a loose timeline for Millennium, though please don't take it–or anything else in this fic–seriously.

I used to feel bad about writing Hellsing smut, but after reading Dok's Story– _PFFT_ –whatever I write pales in companion to what Hirano already published. However, the sexual and violent content in this fic is graphic and can be triggering, especially if you have a past of abuse, rape or assault. This fic should probably be rated MA for later chapters and is available on A03 in the event of deletion.


	2. Chapter 2

"Let's go!" Winkle cried, urging the men on.

Anchored in a cavernous grotto tucked deep in the Andes Mountains, the Letzte Bataillon prepared for the warfare they vehemently craved. She had been running drills with her troops on the exterior of the dirigible for most of the early evening. One of her favorite duties, Winkle usually trained her men on the metal skeleton supporting the bottom of the Deus Ex Machina, the largest ship in the fleet. The metal gutters that held the ship's engines reinforced the iron underbelly created the perfect obstacle course.

Since the Major rarely let troops go ashore to the surrounding jungle without a specific intent in mind, one had to be inventive. As a sniper, she was charged with training other marksmen. Thanks to her initiative, aside from live target practice, fieldcraft was the most popular and daring training session. While mortal men learned the art of camouflage, F.R.E.A.K.s took evasion and stealth to an entirely different level. Silent as shadows Winkle and her troops darted and swung from beam to beam, racing from stem to stern and back.

As per usual, since the Major appreciated her musical taste, opera blared over the sound system to rally the troops, and they would practice the art of war to Wagner, Mozart, and her personal favorite, Weber. Like in a theater, the glorious sound echoed off the high stone wall of the grotto until the cascading arias became akin to a valkyrie's unending warcry.

Normally, she would cheerfully urge her men to victory with song, enthralled by the music and promise of violence. While the men ran helter-skelter, she'd flip and tuck ahead of them, playfully and fearlessly rallying them. Now, as was becoming a habit as of late, she practiced in stern silence, slowly falling through their ranks as they raced ahead of her.

Limbs starting to shake uncontrollably, Winkle stopped and perched on the starboard engine. Careless men had been lost during this exercise before. Those who slipped and fell were left to their own devices. Should they survive being dashed against the rocks over a hundred meters below, they then had to climb back up to the zeppelin before sunrise, or else. How humiliating.

Winkle grimaced and glanced down at the dark depth below, expression worsening as her stomach grumbled and constricted painfully. A few of the troops paused then, perching on the metal girders like ravens and cocking their heads to the side questioningly. For a high-ranking officer to feel such fatigue was unusual. With a glare, she straightened and ordered them on with a flick of her hand.

The troops followed the order, but a few blood-red eyes lingered. The curious glances stopped only when she bared razor teeth at them. Not good. The Batallion, at least, those under her control, were sensing a change in her. Bending down, Winkle started to stretch to hide the quaking and pressed a hand to her thinning waistline. She hadn't fed since her short examination a week and a half ago, Zorin still the root of the problem.

She'd tried to solve the problem with an offering but to no avail. The plan had backfired and if anything had only made Zorin more vigilant. Once the fleshly caught meals were brought and strung up over the long tables, Zorin didn't leave the mess hall until the guests had been thoroughly drained. Chain smoking, she now played cards with the Batallion every night while they fed and made bets on how long the individuals, the meals of the evening, would last. With Zorin's presence popular and expected, Winkle doubted she'd be able to feed freely for some time.

Suddenly, there was a thud before her as someone else landed on the engine. The moonlight dappling through the jagged gaps in the rock ceiling dimmed. She glanced up to find a green-clad, barreled chest blocking the view. Tilting her head back further, Winkle found Günsche silently staring down. Stopping her stretches, she stood tall and sighed in annoyance. Cold, dead eyes bore down, head tilting as he took her in.

"What?" she spat, hunger having made her mood foul. He didn't reply right away and watched her long legs quake despite stiff posture. "Well, are you just going to stand there all day?"

Raising a hand in a request for silence, Günsche's started to sign in his direct way. First, he pointed at her chest then sharply downward. He paused before making a cross symbol in the air with his index finger. Having worked with him for decades, she could pieces the command together: 'you', 'go down', 'infirmary'. Still, she pulled a face and shrugged, hands waving in mock confusion.

"What?"

He was unmoved.

Quick as lightning he grabbed her by the wrist, yanked her forward, and wrote across her palm with a finger: _Order. Go. To. The. Infirmary_. Struggling to pull away, she blew a raspberry at him. Spittle hitting his face, Günsche released her and expressionlessly pointed up to the ship's entrance near the cargo hold.

"Yes, Hauptsturmführer," she huffed then leaped away.

Grousing all the while, Winkle climbed into the cargo hold entered the dark underbelly of the ship. She shouldn't have made a scene; Günsche was only acting out of duty, but the gnawing hunger was aggravating. Although giving him a hard time wouldn't solve anything, lashing out felt decidedly good. Besides, it was irritating being ordered to return to the clinic in front of her men. How long had Günsche been watching her struggle anyway?

Giving a snort, she clenched serrated teeth and walked down the long hallways of the lowest level of the airship. The infirmary was attached to the laboratory at the bottom of the zeppelin. Initially, the medical and research facilities were separate, but over the decades, the rooms had become nearly indistinguishable. The Doktor's work expanded by leaps and bounds so sporadically, projects, papers, and equipment were strung about in hodgepodge fashion that some might politely call creative chaos. Winkle, on the other hand, found it appallingly disgusting.

Even the corridors were strange down here. Speckled with dark patches of red rust and flaking paint, it is hard to distinguish between the fluids–blood, motor oil, grease, and dried globs of amber ooze–that slicked the walls from floor to ceiling. Dimly lit, the buzzing lights overhead crackled and spat sparks every so often. The power surges from the Doktor's experiments were taxing on the old copper wires.

Perhaps due to the charge in the air and sense of foreboding, the rusty, creaky halls were infrequently visited, except for those explicitly ordered here. As she neared the medical facility, the sound of voices echoed loudly down the hallway.

"I told you to disinfect every tank!" Dok cried.

"I did, Sir, I swear on my life!"

She peered around the hall corner to see the Doktor arguing with one of his few, if only, remaining medical officers. Not an unusual sight.

"Clearly you didn't, the entire batch died! Poisoned by the putrid swill you contaminated in your laziness!" Dok accused, jabbing a finger at the man's chest.

"But-but I did exactly as you requested!" The medic fearfully stammered. At the words, the Doktor's hands began to knot into fists of rage, and he shoved one deep into his lab coat pocket as the assistant continued, "It's impossible to disinfect anything in that chaotic lab–"

The medic's sentence ended in a gurgle as Dok's hand suddenly lashed upward. Red fanned the air in a spray misting the Doctor's face and already stained clothes. Gripping his gushing throat in surprise, the assistant took a stumbling step forward before crumpling to his knees. Gasping wetly, the medic managed to sputter red froth before pitching face down on the floor with a heavy thud.

Blood flowed in beating spurts across the tile, and Winkle salivated at the sight. Thirst burning her gut, she considered making a dash for the dying medic. The sight of the bloody Doktor standing over the prone form, chest heaving and scalpel glinting dimly in the light as it shook in a clenched fist, made Winkle think better of it.

Clamping a knuckle between blunt teeth, Dok let out a shuddering sigh. Like a brooding gargoyle, he curled in on himself, limbs quaking with rage. When blood began to gather and steadily drip onto the floor from his bitten finger the Doktor seemed to gather himself. Pocketing the blade, he stood straight and drew a deep breath before teeth released his hand.

"Wonderful, now I have to dispose of you too," he spat bitterly.

Bending down, he grabbed the medic by the wrists and pulled. Giving a grunt, he slowly managed to drag the body back onto the infirmary, a dark crimson trail following behind. The door clicked shut when the corpse's feet slipped past the threshold.

Eyeing the clinic, Winkle worried jigsaw teeth and considered leaving, not wanting to bear the brunt of the Doktor's temper. Besides, drills would be over soon; her absence might be noticed by the troops, as she was supposed to deliver them to the midnight feeding, not that she would be a part of it. Memories of Zorin suddenly flashed through her head, and she grimaced–damn that glowing hand!

A week ago, she had found Zorin alone in the weight room to settle their differences. Winkle would have attempted sooner had she not initially assumed the woman was playing a cruel practical joke. But the consequences of Zorin's wrath, or ill sense of humor, were becoming apparent. Not feeding was beginning to take its toll, and that created a problem. What would happen if the rest of the Batallion learned that one Obersturmführer was starving out another?

Winkle remembered she'd placed the cigarettes on the bench between Zorin's knees. The woman hadn't stopped lifting the weight over her head until Winkle had cleared her throat. After one more rep, Zorin had placed the weight back into its cradle and slowly sat up. Odd eyes had glanced from the pack to Winkle then back.

"What the hell this?" Zorin had asked with a scowl as she picked up the offering.

"An opportunity," she'd chirped, "I think we should sta–"

"–What the fuck is this?"

"Cigarettes, I know–"

"–These are English, you think that I would smoke shitty, limey cigarettes?" Zorin had asked flatly then crushed the box in her hand before dropping it to the ground. "Is that how you say thank you? What an insult."

"I…wait, thank you?" she'd questioned, cocking her head. What on Earth was there to thank Zorin about? "I don't understand."

"Pfft, of course not. Why would you? You're too busy be'n wrapped up in that stupid opera to pay attention," Zorin had sneered as a throaty laugh leaked through parted lips.

Winkle had felt her face burn then. Any attempt at peace was forgotten.

"I will not stand to be treated like this!" she vowed.

"Then _kneel_ ," Zorin had replied as glowing words spiraled in circles on her tan skin.

With a laugh, the muscled woman had lunged off the weight bench in a blur. There hadn't been any time to react. Tattooed fingers latched onto her face like talons as Zorin had lifted her off the ground by her skull. Through the mask of fingers, Winkle had watched as liquid words spilled down the toned arm. The weight room spun as the walls swirled and melted away until only the two of them had remained in a misty white plane of nonexistence.

Zorin spoke again, lips no longer in time with her echoing words, "Why don't you think for a spell." Green eyes flicked downward then, and Winkle fearfully watched a bottomless, black void suddenly yawn open beneath her dangling feet. "Let's use that bird brain," Zorin had mused with a cruel grin, then dropped her.

The darkness had swallowed Winkle thick as velvet as she screamed. She'd fallen through seemingly endless space until her knees hit hard, slick tile with a crack. The sound of running water had greeted her as wafts of steam fogged her glasses. Nearly blind, she'd turned to see the hazy outline of a nude, tattooed body looming in the distance. Bare feet slapped against the wet floor as the figure strode toward her.

Winkle shuddered and shook her head, pushing away the memories. She wasn't in the weight room, Zorin was hopefully nowhere nearby, and she'd been loitering in the hallway for a while now. Still, she could almost hear the awful, grating cackle as though the woman were still present. Zorin's mind meddling touch was impossible to forget. Damn it. Not even her mind was safe.

Once again, dinner was off the table, not wanting another taste of Zorin's illusions and possible humiliation in front of the feasting soldiers. But if Günsche saw her wandering around the ship, there was a good chance he'd order her right back down to the infirmary, the symptoms of starvation now apparent to more than just Dok. And most pressing, the best shot at a meal was through those infirmary doors, the Doktor's temper notwithstanding.

She sighed, sagged despondently, and began to walk toward the door. Nearing the pool of blood, she considered lapping at it, but pride wouldn't allow such an act. Although it was unlikely, it wouldn't help appearances if anyone caught her drinking like a dog off of the floor. Straightening up, Winkle rapped loudly on the infirmary door three times. No answer.

After a pause, she pulled the door open in time to see a large glass jar fly across the room. Gross yellow liquid sloshing inside of it, the jar crashed to the floor and shattered apart. Shards flew and tinkled across the tile as the dark, yellow liquid oozed into a sticky puddle. Laying in the amber goo appeared to be a single, pinkish lima bean barely more than two centimeters long. Eyeing the mess, Winkle's gave a grimace of disgust. She stepped away and began to back out the door.

"What are you doing here?"

The demand made Winkle stop, head whipping toward the sound of the voice. In the near right corner, Dok sat nearly bent double over a makeshift desk, one strange hand twisted into his hair while the other held a blood-stained finger to his lips. A large, amber ring stained several stacks of papers that sat like a mountain range across the desk, no doubt the place the jar had been seated moments before the Doktor hurled it behind him.

"I was ordered to come," Winkle answered as she stepped forward and let the door close.

"By _who_?!" Dok asked, suddenly spinning his office chair around to stare at her. Pale face flecked with blood; his golden eyes stared in alarm behind slipping glasses.

"...Günsche."

The Doktor's rigid posture relaxed as air hissed through clenched teeth.

"Ah," he murmured. After fixing his spectacles with an index finger, magnified eyes looked her up and down."Well, no surprise why. You look terrible." Giving a frown, she stuck her tongue out at him."Even worse. Do that again and I'll remove it," he reprimanded, and she sucked the muscle back in wetly. Satisfied he continued, "Clearly, you didn't listen to me the last time–"

"–But I did!" she blurted. "I tried a peace offering!"

Dok's lips formed a tight line, and Wrinkle glanced away, knowing she'd acted out of turn twice in a row.

"A peace offer– _for_ _Blitz_?! I did not say to offer her an olive branch; I said no confrontation. While you share the same rank, God does not make all men equal and neither do I," Dok sniffed and wagged a bloody finger at her.

"Then what should I do?" Winkle whined, clutching her caving stomach.

"Figure it out! I'm a doctor, not a counselor," he retorted irritably. "But you had better find a solution before the Major notices, for he'll find one, but I doubt you'll like it."

Winkle grimaced, realizing he was correct.

"Okay...okay I'll try," she muttered.

"Try," he mocked, fists balling tightly in a sudden swell of rage. "Don't try, _do_! _Now_!" and gestured toward the door with a quick, dismissive wave.

Shaking his head, Dok turned back around to the catastrophe he called an office space. Free from the Doktor's scrutiny and seemingly dismissed for the evening, Winkle snuck a glance at the body on the floor.

Chalky face frozen in a silent scream, the dead medic lay slumped beside several gurneys in the opposite corner of the room. The fresh blood stains dripping down the side of one steel bed suggested that Dok had tried and failed to get the body on the slab, too heavy to lift without assistance.

She stalked toward the dead man and crouched beside the body like a thief. Mouth watering, teeth parted wide to–

"–Don't!"

And Winkle jumped at the command, head snapping up to find the Doktor glaring over his shoulder at her.

"Do not drink from the dead," he said simply, starting to turn away again.

"But–"

"–Do _NOT_ drink from him! Better to starve than drink tainted blood," he clipped matter-of-factly, stabbing the bitten finger in her direction.

"But how is this any different than a blood pack?"

Sighing exasperatedly, he fully swung the chair around to face her again.

"What I fed you before was removed while the subject was living, before death could mar it," Dok explained rapidly, "Yes, you thirst for blood, but you're thinking of it only as a liquid, as though it were water– _ach, idiot_! You're not parched– _no_! You are craving life itself! That is the curse and beauty of what you are, now don't _ruin_ it by drinking from the dead!" He cried, deformed hands clenching as though to strangle her.

"...Then can I have a blood pack?" She asked sheepishly with a small grin.

At the request, his teeth bared in anger.

"No."

"But–"

" _But, but, but_!" he parroted back in falsetto, "but _nothing_! I'm not a charity."

With a scowl, Winkle realized her only lifeline was being severed. She glanced at the body in thought, then back to the Doktor.

"Then I'll earn it," she challenged.

He laughed sharply once and barked, "How?"

"I'll move him for you, you can't, right?" She asked, nudging the body with the side of her foot.

Mirth leaving his face, Dok's lips pursed.

"Then lift it," he ordered flatly.

Grabbing the man under the armpits with gusto, Winkle hoisted the body upward only to falter. Quickly wrapping her arms about the corpse, she crushed it to her chest to keep the dead weight upright. Limp as a ragdoll, the medic slipped and hunched over in her grasp until she floundered and was forced to leaned the body against the gurney. With a groan, Winkle tipped the man over until the torso collapsed onto the metal bed with a bang as the corpse's head smashed against the gurney. Body halfway on, she quickly darted to the other end and yanked the uncooperative legs up onto the slab.

"Ta-da!" she sang and whirled around with arms thrown wide to present the accomplishment.

"...Pathetic display, but you did manage, I suppose," Dok muttered, stroking his chin. "You really haven't fed at all, have you?"

Unable to feed from the mess hall and stationed on the ship she hadn't had the opportunity to hunt elsewhere. Shaking her head, Winkle held out her hand expectantly.

"Nope, now my reward is~" she hedged with a smile, fingers grabbing at the air.

"–Unavailable," Dok answered with a shrug.

"But...but I…"

"Yes, you did lift the body, good for you Obersturmführer," he acknowledged, clapping hands twice in false praise. "But you see, I never agreed to your terms; I just said lift...and you did."

Her stomach twisted. He had never intended to give it to her in the first place. Shoulders slumping, Winkle stared forlornly at his hard, watchful face. She had no hope of facing Zorin malnourished. Günsche would probably send her back to the infirmary out of obligation. And Dok was no help whatsoever. A dead end until the others began to notice her weakness.

" _Please_ …" she began and cringed at the word, hating how weak the plea sounded. "I could hunt, but I can't leave the ship without permission. And requesting one leave won't be noticed, but eventually...they'd find out that…"

"You are not as formidable as you appear, possibly costing your standing with the Batallion, the rest of high command, and the Major–all because you can't feed yourself," Dok summed quickly, and she nodded despondently. "Ja, I know. You weren't designed to combat Obersturmführer Blitz; she's trapped you quite nicely."

Winkle sank to the floor, "No one can ever find that she's starving me out."

"It certainly wouldn't look good," he agreed, making her hunch further. "At best, you'd be demoted, at worst...well, I suppose…" he trailed absently, pausing to bite a bloody knuckle in thought before continuing to himself. "Well, finding the supplies would be time-consuming, but the seance might work with another, it's not uncommon for people to form attachments to family firearms…."

"You wouldn't dare replace me!" Winkle gasped.

"Why not?" Dok questioned callously, as though the solution was indisputable. "If you can't handle your peers, forget true combat. Need I remind you what happened in 1945? Besides, you're an older experiment. I'm sure I could make another, an improvement!"

The words stung. Tears prickled her eyes at the thought of being scrapped and never getting a chance to see Millennium's triumphant return. Still, she wasn't dissuaded. What the Doktor said as true, he probably could create another, but how feasible was that really? Winkle remembered the scene in the hallway. Appealing to his stunted sense of compassion hadn't worked, time to switch tactics.

"Oh? Well, go ahead!" she snapped. Rising to her feet, Winkle turned to address the empty room, "Come on everyone, you heard him, let's make another!" A sharp gasp followed. She glanced at the Doktor. Jaw slack, the man sat aghast. Flashing a wicked smile, she spun on the tips of her toes and pranced back to the dead medic's side. " _Come on_! Get up silly, snap to it!" She cried grabbing the corpse's arms and giving a playful tug, "I don't see anyone _else_ ~"

Metal wheels screeched against the tiled floor as Dok shot up out of his seat.

"You–" he fumed.

"Up! Up! _UP_!~" she chanted, swinging limp arms back and forth.

Soft-soled shoes slapped against the floor in rapid succession behind her.

" _Silence_!" Dok shrieked.

Winkle glanced back. Seeing the raised fist, metal glinting between clenched fingers, she ducked down. As Dok's hand whizzed overhead, scalpel slicing wayward black cowlicks, Winkle quick scampered to the opposite side of the gurney. Alert, she rose to her feet, watching the hunched figure for sudden movements.

Bowed from the force of the swing, the panting Doktor raised his head, scalpel gleaming in his hand. Spectacles slipping down his nose, yellow, blazing eyes glared at her. A stab from the surgical knife would sting and the wound annoying to heal at present, but not lethal.

"What's wrong? I'm trying to help," Winkle assured and with a smile. "You said you could make another, right? Must be awfully hard by yourself~, you used to have so many assistants. "

"Shut your insolent mouth!"

"But Herr Doktor, you are always saying that science stands on the shoulders of giants. Without others where would you be?" Winkle questioned, terribly pleased with her retort.

"Do not twist my words," he threatened and flicked the blade menacingly in her direction.

He didn't attack, however, which led Winkle to believe that not only had she found some leverage, but Dok was listening despite his fury. Although the Hellsing raid in 1945 had thinned their ranks considerably, the numbers in the Letzte Bataillon slowly increased again over time. But while the army had endured, the medical staff only dwindled pathetically.

Her transformation had been shortly after the Hellsing raid, at that time the laboratory had boasted a staff of nearly forty. Winkle remembered this, as there had always been an assembly to showcase the latest, greatest specialized F.R.E.A.K. As the first, she'd witnessed the rise of more comrades. Zorin had been made within the following year, but it had taken almost another twenty for Alhambra to join their ranks in the late 1960's. By the time the Brazilian had been reborn, only a measly seven medical officers had stood with Dok to present the newest creation.

"But, Doktor, I think we can help each other out," Winkle proposed, smiling growing devious. "If you be the hands that feeds, I can offer a helping hand in return~."

"Y-you manipulative devil," Dok choked, head shaking vehemently." As if I would ever stomach you being underfoot in my facility!"

"Why not?" she asked with a shrug.

" _Why_?! You have the gall to ask!" he steamed."For one, your behavior as of late has been positively atrocious. And you have absolutely no training in any of the medical or scientific arts!" Dok cried, hand coming to clutch at his heart in horror. "I will not have your nescience ruin my work!"

Quirking an eyebrow, Winkle clicked her teeth at the response and gave a sideways glance to the body on the slab.

Sighing theatrically, she patted the cooling cheek and asked glibly, "And did all your training keep you from making a mistake?" Fingers gripped the stiffening jaw, and she puppeted the head back and forth. Lips pouting in mock sympathy, she leaned on the gurney and rested her chin on a palm. Bending close to the corpse to continue their conversation, Winkle cooed, "Ahh, I thought not. I wonder what the Major will have to say come next progress report…"

The dim light of the lab was obscured suddenly as the angry grinding of teeth issued from above. Pleasantly, Winkle looked up at the red-faced, blood spattered Doktor looming over the gurney, magnified eyes murderous behind strange spectacles.

" _Enough_!" He growled. Trembling with rage, Dok's free hand dove into the pocket of his bloody lab coat and held up a tiny remote.

Winkle's smile vanished. The back of the device was listed with several names, and the Doktor's fingers hovered over the one corresponding to the bold letters that read R.I.P. van Winkle. Perhaps she had gone too far. Quickly, she released the medic and shot off the gurney.

"I-I was only tryin–" she began to explain.

"–I know what you were trying to do you imprudent quim!" Dok snapped back viciously. "And this is what your needling got you–the ultimate leverage, _see_?" he asked, and Winkle grimaced, watching fingers tense around the remote. "So, you want to barter? Well, _do you_?!"

Winkle hesitated, "...I...I think we can help each other."

"Bah! You can't even help yourself!" Dok seethed.

Serrated teeth clamped shut, and Winkle bit her lip bloody. She could offer no rebuttal. Unable to hold the steely gaze, she looked at the floor and nodded twice conceding that he was right. She hadn't resolved the conflict with Zorin. If anything she'd made it worse. In increasingly desperate attempts to be fed, she'd gone overboard, insulting and alienating her only chance at a meal, not to mention repeatedly disrespecting a high-ranking officer. Behavior not all befitting an Obersturmführer.

Head bowed, she waited for the Doktor to press the button. He had killed for much less. She dared to sneak an upward glance and regretted it; large, livid eyes stared down in return, silently promising pain. After snorting sharply through his nose, Dok suddenly turned on his heel and stalked off into the clinic.

Winkle remained bent, head lowered, as though contemplating where to step in the center of a minefield. In the distance, cabinet doors slammed, glass shattered, then footsteps slapped purposefully across the floor toward her again. She watched as gray shoes came to an abrupt halt.

"Attention!" he barked. At the command, Winkle immediately snapped her head up. The Doktor's lips were pursed, but he appeared unnervingly calm as he held a vial of clear liquid toward her face. "You want to work for your sustenance?" Winkle quickly nodded, not expecting the abrupt turn of events.

"Well, due to your behavior, you've earned this instead," Dok replied, waving the bottle between latex fingers. When she didn't move, his mouth twisted into a vicious snarl and he hissed, "take it!"

Winkle snatched the bottle, "Wha–"

"–Drink!" he cut off, holding up the remote in a silent threat.

She removed the cork, raised the bottle to her mouth, and tipped it back. Yelping and sputtering, Winkle spewed the fizzling mess onto the floor, hand coming to clutch scorching lips. The liquid burned like hot coals and its lingering touch continued to melt gums and tongue into bloody strings of goo.

" 'at?" she tried to ask, fanged maw open and dripping red like a sore.

"Holy water," he sniffed. "To wash out that disrespectful mouth of yours–now get to work! You can start by cleaning up the mess you made," and he gestured sharply to the bubbling ooze on the stained tile.

After whipping a dirty rag at her face, Dok stormed off toward the depths of his domain once more as crashing and muffled curses followed in his wake. Pulling the filthy, awful-smelling cloth off her head, Winkle watched the Doktor's back disappear as he entered the laboratory and slammed the door behind him. Although her mouth still sizzled, blistered lips gave a slight smile. She had an in.

* * *

Notes:

About the whole drinking from the dead thing. I needed to limit Winkle's ability to get blood, so I decided to nix dead bodies. I know Alucard like...eats everything, but he's Alucard, bootleg-copies can't compare. (But the Letzte Batallion totally cornered and ate people whole! Dok even ordered them to do so–-shhhhhhh, yea yea.) Interview with a Vampire rules apply in this fic, the blood is good until the heart stops, so catching and drinking spurts from the dying is totally okay, but drinking from someone whose heart has stopped isn't. If the blood is beginning to coagulate on a surface it's not good either. (I know it's incongruent with Hellsing.)

I probably write the characters sassier than they should be too, but ehhh. I like it. (Wheaton syndrome?) Winkle is really sassy with Dok, like way more than she should be to a high-ranking officer, but I wanted it to seem like they have a working relationship (Besides, isn't that the master x vampire power dynamic–subjugation and sass? That's it, that's the show.) Winkle teases to get what she wants, switches to being humble and coy when that backfires. She might be a bit of an airhead, but tries her hand at manipulating emotions to get her way.


	3. Chapter 3

Winkle inhaled the delicious, heady aroma wafting out the open doors as she walked toward the mess hall to the click of three dozen jackboots following behind. Coming to a halt by the entrance, she gave a sharp nod. On command, the troops entered, and she noted their ravenous eyes and lengthening incisors with envy as they passed.

It had been nearly a month and a half since she had joined them for the midnight feeding. If the rest of the Batallion noticed, they gave no indication; it wasn't their place to question a high-ranking officer, and why should they? Her performance in front of them has been nothing short of exemplary, overlooking the incident where Günsche ordered her down the infirmary. No one was the wiser. Well, almost.

Giving a sideways glance into the mess hall, Winkle eyed the bounty offered tonight. Suspended in the air by long, thick links of chain, bodies hung end to end over the long wooden tables by their bent arms and legs. It was tradition to share meals, as the bite of an F.R.E.A.K. created a ghoul far too quickly for dinner en masse to be enjoyable. Slicing the dinner guests with carving knives helped to extend the course.

Contorted as they were, the blood streamed down the captives' limbs, dripped off the points of their joints, and collected into open-mouthed steins below. As their meals slowly drained drop by drop, the troops relaxed. Cards was a favorite pastime, and they frequently gambled. Those blooddrunk would burst into song, and they'd pester more agreeable men into joining them. She missed the revelry of it all, not just the taste of fresh blood.

It had never been difficult to feast, until this recent spat with Zorin. The Reich still lived on in South America. It was common for sympathizers to provide blood, flesh, and money in exchange for the Batallion's services. Only after the ability to feed had been taken away did she realized how much she depended on it.

Feeling hairs start to stand on the back of her neck, Winkle scanned the occupants in the dining hall. Several tables back, a pair of mismatching eyes stared back. Zorin sat with a cigarette clamped between her teeth, smoke curling in wisps from flaring nostrils. Odd eyes slowly trailed Winkle up and down before settling on her face with a smolder. Winkle squared her shoulders and glared back. The way the strange gaze lingered she assumed that Zorin didn't like her healthy appearance. The starvation wasn't working anymore.

Winkle flicked her eyebrows up in a silent challenge: what are you going to do about it? Zorin paused, mouth pursing to take a drag. After exhaling a plume of smoke, she plucked the cigarette from thin lips, outed the cherry on the blood spotted table and grabbed the carving knife beside her. A cruel smile cut the woman's face, and Winkle wondered if she would hurl the knife at her. Instead, Zorin rose to her feet.

Odd eyes glanced at the captive strung barely a meter above the tabletop; the bound woman hung limply by her bent and bleeding limbs. Raising a tattooed forearm high overhead, Zorin brought the knife down on the back of the captive's neck with the force of a guillotine. Bone crunched, steel splintered, and chained limbs jerked before snapping like kindling. In a spray of red, the woman's head sailed through the air, long brown hair trailing behind like a kite tail. With a bang, the head bounced off the table and rolled out of sight like an egg on the blood-slicked floor.

Blood fountained onto the tabletop, and the men around the table cheered. Dashing for their steins, they held the mugs up to catch the fleeting arterial bursts from the severed neck. Mismatching eyes found her's again. Giving a crooked smile, Zorin winked as her tongue licked a clean line up her blood-spattered, tattooed arm.

"How about another round?" Zorin cried, raising the splintered, ruined knife.

The troops roared in reply, steins hammering against the tabletop for more. Stomach clenching, Winkle turned away. Nothing tasted like fresh, hot blood. Zorin was taunting her with fresh kills. Damn her. With a scowl, Winkle slowly trudged down to the bottom of the ship and headed toward the medical facility.

Her schedule had been officially changed the evening after she'd struck a deal with the Doktor. A letter had arrived the next day—in the Major's writing no less!—that she was to report to the laboratory every evening after midnight and stay until dawn. In the letter, the Major had even thanked her for volunteering and mentioned how challenging it was to find staff for the medical unit. Until the Doktor saw fit, she would be his assistant. There hadn't been an ending date set and a month had passed by already.

Since she hadn't received another word, Winkle wondered how much the Major knew about the deal. The man was uncannily omniscient, as though he heard and saw all aboard the fleet. Did he honestly believe this was a work of charity? Still, she supposed it didn't matter terribly. Her good standing seemed to be maintained, for now.

The bottom of the ship was devoid of any soul, living or otherwise, and she entered into the infirmary unseen. Not long ago, Winkle would have found the Doktor bent over the piles of papers on his desk in the near corner, but the dark space sat nearly empty now.

Dok had complained of people interrupt his work, so she'd taken the initiative and moved his hodgepodge office into the laboratory the first week of her assignment to medical. Winkle had no idea who would dare bother the Doktor. Rather, she believed the grievances sprung from his irritability and paranoia, but he seemed to appreciate the change as the complaints stopped.

She ought to continue separating the rooms, as a distinction between the medical and research facilities was necessary. Over the last month, Winkle noticed the disorganization often left the Doktor angrily sorting through his supplies, which wasted time and only upset him further. As if to prove the point over, she'd watched him tear an entire cabinet apart hunting for equipment a week ago.

The scene of Dok hurling glassware and medical instruments behind him carelessly in anger was still fresh in her memory. The tinkle of glass breaking and the ping of metal striking against the tile sounded almost musical. Oddly captivating, she'd stopped cleaning and silently sat down on a nearby countertop to watch the chaos. As soon as he'd caught sight of her idle, Dok whirled around to face her. Coat billowing, he'd stomped across the room.

"Where did _you_ put them?" He'd demanded and stopped before her.

"Put what?" Winkle had asked back and playfully swung her feet.

"As if it weren't obvious!" He'd cried and gestured to the overflowing mess that was the cabinet.

In an attempt to guess his meaning, Winkle had glanced at the stuffed drawers, and then to the shattered glass and dozens of tiny, silver splinters that littered the floor—oh.

"...do you mean the needles?"

" _Syringes_ ," he'd corrected tersely, cheeks ruddy with rage. "I had hundreds of 16-gauge syringes, and now they are nowhere to be found! Ever since you started moving my instruments, I can't find a thing!"

"And you could before?" Winkle questioned with a quirked brow.

"You impertinent—"

"—I didn't touch your needles, yet," she'd interrupted. At the blatant disrespect, Dok sucked an indignant breath through clenched teeth, face now scarlet. Casually, she'd pointed to the front of the room. "See. I didn't get that far."

Dok had whipped around to look. The entrance of the clinic, which had once been where he saw the majority of his patients, held his desk in one corner, and a graveyard of rusty gurneys in the other stood empty. All that was left of the makeshift office were several boxes of files. In the opposite corner, four polished gurneys stood against the wall; the others had been cleaned and moved to the laboratory. The tiled floor was also noticeably whiter and where she had stopped mopping in the middle of the clinic, several feet shy of the cabinet in question, stood as a dirty but evident barrier that her words were true.

He'd slowly turned back to her and blazing, yellow eyes narrowed over the rim of multi-lensed spectacles. Winkle had smiled in return, but it dimmed when she caught the tremor in his arm. After glancing at the balled fist he'd shoved into his pocket, her smile had grown two-fold then. She's wasn't an unfortunate, frightened medic.

"Go ahead, I'm here to help," Winkle had encouraged and tilted her head back to bare a length of throat. Through dark lashes, she watched the Doktor snarl. "It makes you feel better, _right_ ~?"

The harsh grate of gritted teeth sounded as Dok started to shake with barely bridled rage. Hateful eyes had raked across her grinning face, and Winkle was certain he would cut her, not that the damage would be lasting. A guttural moan left him, but rather than slash at the soft skin, Dok suddenly turned away on his heel.

Bringing the hand to his mouth instead, he'd stomped off into the dimness of the clinic. Entering the laboratory, he'd slammed the door behind him. She hadn't been fed that night, but Winkle thought the Doktor's reaction enough to chew over.

To keep pointless spats from happening, separating the rooms seemed necessary. However, the Cold Storage room had put the division on hold, as she'd accidentally knocked a jar of formic acid into the cooling unit yesterday. That had also cost her meal. With the giant fridge fried, she'd managed to keep the room cool by piling blocks of ice on the floor from the large, antique icebox in the zeppelin's central kitchen.

She had refrained from mentioning the broken cooling unit, only realizing her mistake when he'd come to reward her for an evening of work, as blood packs were kept under lock and key in Cold Storage. She remembered how he had stopped dead in the center of the room, head snapping down to stare at the floor then at her. The silent motor and the ice had been a dead give away.

"What happened?" He'd demanded curtly.

Lying to the Doktor only seemed to create more problems, so she was truthful.

Eyes downcast, Winkle had pointed to the control system and admitted, "I think I broke it...sort of knocked something into it."

He'd turned briefly in the direction of the thermostat in question, no doubt finding the broken glass still under the metal box, then back to the stacked ice and gestured toward the blocks.

"And this is also your doing?"

She'd spared him a glance and explained, "It was the only thing I could think of—"

"—Because you didn't want to call it to my attention, _hum_?" he'd inquired suddenly, eyebrow arched knowingly.

Repentant eyes had fallen to the floor again as Winkle worried jigsaw teeth and uttered, "...Yes."

He'd drawn a deep breath then, and she cringed, expecting yet another scolding.

"If something like this occurs, bring to my attention-I cannot fix what I do not know is broken!" Dok had chided, and Winkle's shoulders sagged.

"... Sorry," she'd mumbled mutely, head still bowed.

She'd dared to give him a rueful upward glance. Eyes met. Posture rigid, Dok had been the first to look away and swallowed thickly as his attention returned to the blocks of ice.

"The solution is...adequate, but only just," he'd reluctantly admitted, before snapping and gesturing to the shelves. "That said, I will not tolerate further carelessness. You could have _ruined_ the entire lot!"

Winkle had given another nod in return, eyes sinking to watch her Blucher timidly scuff the tiled floor. In her peripheral, she'd watch as the silent agreement made the Doktor's lips pucker, as though unsure of what to say.

Feeling the intensity of magnified eyes scouring her face, Winkle remembered then how the medic in the hallway had tried to defend himself. She showed only acceptance, and Dok seemed taken aback by the humble response. Slowly, blue eyes had dared to give another doe-eyed glance, and the Doktor bristled.

" _Out_! An empty stomach will teach you to be more attentive," he'd ordered and pointed sharply toward the iron-bolted door.

Winkle left though she'd spared a look back before the door swung closed. Back bowed, Dok remained in the center of the room with a hand held to his mouth; blunt teeth had already bitten the white latex bloody. The blonde head had shaken back and forth as though in a silent argument, then the storage door closed and she saw no more.

A serrated smile had cut across her face the second the lock clicked shut. Like an actor leaving the stage, Winkle straightened thin, broad shoulders and left the clinic feeling quite pleased with herself. The act had worked! The broken frigid was technically her fault, and it would be impossible to get the Doktor to concede that the jar of acid was poorly placed. Although the blame landed on her, he hadn't reached for his scalpel once. Interesting.

Still, there was a mess to clean up, enough reminiscing. With a sigh, Winkle headed toward Cold Storage to continue her latest job. The room was a cabinet of curiosities; hundreds of specimen jars sat collecting dust among the locked boxes of blood packs and containers of chemicals on the tall, rusty shelves. Disgusting yet somehow intriguing, she'd snooped around the room, which was how she had bumped the damn jar of acid in the first place.

The specimen jars ranged in size: some fit in the palm of her hand, others were large enough to hold whole torsos, and a few did, among other large, nameless specimen. Dok kept a vast collection of oddities behind glass: dozens of tumorous organs with amber, bulbous growths budding from spongy flesh; the fetuses of human, animal, and species unidentifiable to her in various stages of development, some conjoined; and the skeletal, rotting remains of clawed hands, spinal columns, rib cages, sharp-toothed skulls and the like from failed test subjects numbering in the thousands. All were suspended in a mysterious, amber goo that oozed as slowly as molasses, or so she'd discovered after tipping one jar to the side out of curiosity.

As she had the day before, Winkle pulled jar after jar off the shelf, loaded them onto a cart, and wheeled them toward the laboratory. The ice was a suitable solution until the Doktor could spare the time to fix the refrigeration unit. But the real answer so this wouldn't happen again, was reorganizing and condensing the grotesque collection. The broken cooling system merely made it necessary. Not all of the specimen had survived the years locked away in storage. Quite a few of the oddities had disintegrated in their jars, some had solidified entirely, and others appeared to be growing black, green mold.

The lab door opened on squeaky hinges, but the sound went ignored by the man in the left-hand corner of the room. Even as Winkle neared, the Doktor's blood-stained back remained resolutely bent over the wooden desk, blonde head bowed, hands furiously typing. Winkle stopped beside him, cart squealing to a halt.

Dok took no notice of her. Line after line of glowing green code streamed across the terminal monitor before him in a blur of nonsensical, repetitive letters: CTGTAAAT, AATCTG, CCGAAT, ATCTGTA, AATCCG, AAA, etc. The strings of, well they couldn't even be called words, meant nothing to her, but the Doktor seemed totally consumed by the work.

It wasn't until she cleared her throat that magnified eyes suddenly darted toward her face then to the row of jars. With one free hand, as the other continued to type rows of glowing script, Dok taped the lid of several containers and like a Caesar gave a silent thumbs up-acceptable. He then poked several more lids before giving a harsh thumbs down-trash.

They continued in this manner for the rest of the evening. Winkle brought cart after cart of jars out for the Doktor to judge, reorganized the good, and then tossed the bad specimen into a metal bin to be incinerated later. The work was terribly mundane and repetitive. She'd begun to sing to stave off the mind-numbing boredom. Surprisingly, the storage room had good acoustics. The instant the iron-bolted door clanged shut behind her, Winkle burst into solo after solo. She quieted to a gentle hum only when wheeling out another cart of jars.

After dozens of trips to the storage room, her time in the medical ward was nearly over as morning approached. Winkle pushed one more cartload for the Doktor to inspect—by no means the last; this work would continue tomorrow—and for the first time, he acknowledged her presence. Magnified eyes glanced up to greet her as soon as the cart stopped. After indicating which specimen were worthy of staying, he got up from the desk and followed her to the storage room.

With a mild hum of approval, he inspected the shelves as she threw out the latest batch of the putrid specimen into the metal bin. This was probably the cleanest the Cold Storage had been in decades. As a reward, Dok produced a key from his pocket and unlocked one of the metal containers. Winkle swallowed thickly, eyeing the dark red packets lying in neat rows inside. Removing one, Dok tossed it behind him blindly, and Winkle snagged the pack out of the air, eagerly sinking jigsaw teeth into a plastic corner.

Slurping down the contents, Winkle offered a blood-stained smile when he turned to stare. She expected him to scold her or, at the very least, dismiss her for the evening. Instead, a latex finger crooked in her direction, indicating that she ought to accompany as he exited the storage room.

After tossing the empty bag in the incineration bin, Winkle curiously followed Dok through the clinic and into the laboratory. She hadn't frequented this room as much. Overlooking the office space she had set up near right corner, she knew little of what the laboratory contained and quietly trailed after him down the center of the room.

Rows of plastic dividers on either side of them sectioned off the lab, creating a blood-spattered hallway toward the operating theater in the far back. Their passing stirred the air and caused the stained sheets to billow ominously. As the dividers swayed, Winkle caught fleeting glimpses of rusty steel tables, chipped wash basins, and sooty glass lab equipment in the cubicles beyond.

One of the little rooms was lit. For a brief moment, she saw several rows of large, cylindrical tubes lined on a metal lab table as she passed. The bright, yellow liquid inside each seemed to glow a dark amber as all the tanks were kept under thermal lamps. A small, pinkish blob was suspended within each tube. The sight made her pause. The containers looked not unlike the glass Dok had thrown the day she'd been ordered down to the infirmary by Günsche. What were those things?

Dok cleared his throat, and she jumped, head whipping toward the sound. The man now stood near the back of the room holding one of the dividers open expectantly. Winkle trotted over and stopped to glance at the silent Doktor and then the gloomy space beyond the sheet. After hesitantly ducking under his arm, she entered.

The little cubicle the strung up curtains created was oddly cozy, despite the questionable stains. A gurney stood to the right surrounded by a strange array of stacked machines that appeared to be in a state of repair. Spools of fraying wire, chipboards, needle-nosed pliers, adaptors, and screwdrivers lay strewn across on the floor near the broken electronics.

Winkle would have assumed the room was a repair shop of sorts, had it not been for the plush cot and several blankets laying on the metal bed. The rusty rack of hanging lab coats, shirts, and trousers to the left also indicated that this room was something more private. Was this where the Doktor slept? Come to think of it the man never seemed to rest at all.

She watched uncertainly as Dok neared the gurney and knelt to the floor. After rummaging through the spare parts that lined the shelving underneath the metal bed, he grabbed what appeared to be a wooden box and lift it. He rose to his feet, opened the brass latches and pulled back the lid. Her eyes widened as the circular turntable inside was revealed—a phonograph! Slack-jawed, she could only stare as he extended it toward her.

"While you're here, you may use this as you see fit," Dok instructed. She gasped in shock, and he was quick to add, "but it had better not become a distraction, understand?"

She could only gape in awe at the antique player; it was gorgeous, probably hand-made. The small size of the walnut lacquer box and the brass hand crank on the front meant the beautiful phonograph was portable, too. Eyes watery and round in adoration, she slowly stroked a finger around the rim of its turntable. Dok shifted.

"... _Winkle_!"

With a start, her head snapped up to look at him imploringly before asking, "Can...can I have it?"

Her last record player had been ruined, waterlogged by an event she preferred not to think about. Calculating eyes peered down at her pleading face over lens loupes.

"I...suppose I haven't any need for it currently, but do not break it," he said after a moment of consideration.

"I won't–I would never! It-it's beautiful!" She assured, nearly crying. With a shriek of delight, she took the player before Dok could change his mind. Bouncing with unrestrained joy, she hugged it gently. After shifting the phonograph carefully against her lapel with a hand like a baby, she snared the willowy man around the middle and gushed, "Thankyouthankyouthankyou!"

The Doktor gave a sharp inhale and went rigid, but she barely noticed, too pleased with her prize. Releasing him, she dashed past the curtain and into the laboratory with inhuman speed. Phonograph lovingly cuddled to her chest Winkle whooped with glee as she sprinted out of the medical ward and to her room, intent on using the new player immediately.

* * *

Notes:

1\. Winkle's getting better at manipulating Dok–-he does have a slight soft spot for his creations, somewhere. She might not always be 100% there, but she's not a total idiot.

2\. I did some research on phonographs and gramophones but couldn't find much. I know in WW2, wind-up phonographs were popular with U.S. troops and doubled as a radio, so that's what I based Dok's player off of. He made his tho. Dok is a renaissance man; he can fix and create a lot of stuff–cue archetypal mad scientist. Dude's like Krieger in Sterling; he can make whatever in the name of science–-screw morals and ethics! And probably like TF2 Medic and Krieger, he doesn't have a medical license or had his revoked. But that's just my take.

3\. Also, Dok does have an actual room on the Zeppelin. It's just full of weird sciencey shit so the door is difficult to open (hoarders inspired). That and he works himself to the point of exhaustion and just sorta passes out at irregular intervals. Just throw a blanket over him and back away.

4\. Yeah, the bondage in the mess hall scene probably isn't "right", but it's not like they're supposed to survive.


	4. Chapter 4

The following evening after midnight, Winkle found herself back in the Cold Storage room once again carting out jars for the Doktor to judge, then wheeling them back after the verdict. For the first time, however, she began to enjoy the menial chores thanks to the Dok's contribution. Tonight, the phonograph sat prominently in the middle of the infirmary blaring Weber's masterpiece, Der Freischütz.

As she pushed the cart back and forth throughout the night, Winkle sang unabashedly. The lyrics poured from her effortlessly. Every note, pause, and pulsating vibrato was ingrained in her soul, as though the music had been written for her alone. She only made an effort to be quiet in the laboratory and hummed along to the music leaking through the door.

If the noise bothered the Doktor, he gave no indication. Rather, he went on with work as usual, as though she nor the music were present, save for the moments his attention was required for her to finish a task. The night was uneventful; Winkle dared to call it pleasant even. Basking in the glory of the greatest opera ever created till dawn with a meal waiting afterward made the deal more ideal than she had ever considered. When daylight began to break, Dok presented her reward without a word.

Blood pack held between jagged teeth, Winkle left the infirmary with the phonograph in her arms. The door barely closed before something thick and strong looped around her neck. Immediately, Winkle made a grab for the noose, nearly dropping the player in the process. Instead of fiber, her nails dug into firm, dead flesh.

"Well, well, well, so this is where you've been flocking to," A horribly familiar voice muttered into her ear. "You know, all I have to do to find you is to follow the sound of your crowing. No one else but you plays that shit, Songbird."

Winkle choked as the unforgiving headlock tightened, pressing her black flat against a tall, muscled body. Zorin.

"And what's this…" the woman added, free hand coming to pull the bag of blood away from clamped, razor teeth. Plastic ripped and blood dripped down Winkle's lapel before splattering to the floor. Holding the pack between thumb and forefinger, she gave a snort of disgust, " _Seriously_?"

Winkle gurgled in reply. A flick of Zorin's wrist sent the blood pack flying across the empty hallway. The bag struck the opposite wall wetly and smeared a long, bloody trail to the floor as it fell.

"All this to avoid me," Zorin said, leaning into whisper in the shell of her ear. "It was a fun game, but I'm getting bored." Throat crushed between bicep and forearm, and head pinned against Zorin's collar bone, Winkle could only squirm as a hand began to worm past the buttons of her suit jacket. Balancing the phonograph precariously, she tried to swat the wayward touch away with a slap. Nothing.

"How'd you get Dok to give you a snack anyway?" Zorin mused, pushing the dark jacket flaps open. Fingers easily threaded past the buttons of her dress shirt, even as Winkle tried to yank the searching hand away by the wrist. "He's a staunch believer in the whole, 'work'll set you free' idea. Must have done something to earn it. If you were hurt'n for a bite that badly, we coulda worked something out."

Fingers suddenly fisted fabric and pulled. Buttons pinged against the floor as her dress shirt was ripped open. Winkle jumped, accidentally choking herself in the crook of Zorin's arm as the same hand palmed an exposed breast. Stomach clenching at the feeling, Winkle trembled. Her teeth gritted and eyes slide closed as the calloused, caressing hand brought her back to that day in the shower. Suddenly, the weight in her grip shifted.

Blue eyes snapped open in time to watch the phonograph slip from her hold. Her hands cut through the air in a desperate attempt to grab the player, but pulled flush against Zorin, failing arms missed, and the phonograph fell to the floor. Wood splintered on impact. A large crack zigzagged up the base of the player like a lightning bolt. Tears prickled her eyes at the sight. Zorin, however, seemed not to notice or care; rough fingers continued to knead into her tea-cup breast.

"You like making deals, right?" Zorin asked knowingly. "I'll feed you...but I want the first bite."

Winkle wheezed, and bloody tracks ran down speckled cheeks. She barely registered the words, too busy sorrowfully staring down at the beautiful, broken player until her vision blurred from the tears. Surely this would mean another scolding from the Doktor, but it also meant something more important, no more Der Freischütz.

When lips brushed her neck, Wrinkle jolted and forced her head down. Mouth opening wide, she dug razor teeth into the meaty forearm looped about her neck. The hoarse gasp that followed was so satisfying at that moment it nearly rivaled Weber's masterpiece. Teeth snapping together like puzzle pieces, she came away with an oozing chunk of flesh and spat it to the ground. It was only after she opened her maw to take another savage bite that Zorin let go.

Free of the choke-hold, Winkle made a dash for the nearest sanctuary: the infirmary. Throwing the door wide, she dared to glance back. Zorin gave a sharp, lopsided smile in return, mismatching eyes alight with something like amusement as she reached out to snare her again.

At full speed, Winkle dove past the threshold. Throwing her back flat against the door, she slammed closed with a bang. Just outside, jackboots slowly clicked against the floor and came to a stop directly behind her.

"If that's how you want to play, I'm game," Zorin said.

A mere door wouldn't stop Zorin, she was going to have to hide. Sprinting forward, Winkle suddenly stopped dead as her hair was snagged. Like a fish on a line, she was jerked backward by her long mane until her skull smashed against the metal door with a sickening crack. The force made round-rim glasses slip down her nose. Groping blindly behind her, Winkle gripped the taut ropes of hair. Oh no.

Feeling the silky strands feeding through the doorjamb her eyes grew round. Zorin had indeed managed to catch her and closing the door had only made matters far worse. As if to punctuate the realization, Zorin gave a harsh tug, forcing her head back against the door with another loud crack. The smarting pain made tears spring to her eyes again. Moaning in grief, Winkle sagged against the cold, metal entrance in humiliation.

In the distance, soft-soled shoes slapped the floor, and her watery eyes glanced toward the sound. In the din of the clinic, the Doktor's silhouette took shape, striding purposefully toward her. Stopping a pace away, Dok crossed his arms and offered only a sigh as his shrewd gaze took in her predicament. Magnified eyes trailed up the exposed clavicle and lingered on blood-stained lips before narrowing in annoyance. In desperation, Winkle pressed hands together in a silent plea. Unamused eyes rolled in response.

" _Please_ …" she murmured.

"Little louder Songbird," Zorin's voice poured under the doorframe.

Winkle yelped as she was yanked backward again. Her head smashed against the door so hard the metal rattled against the frame. Glasses tinkled to the tiled floor. Blood-tinged tears freely rolled down pale cheeks as she closed her eyes at the throbbing pain. Another sigh issued from above.

 _Shink!_

Blue eyes flew open as soft strands rained down the back of her bare neck. Without glasses, Winkle glanced up to see the blurred form of the Doktor holding a hazy scalpel in one hand and a fist full of long, black hair in the other. Pocketing the blade, he dropped the wad of hair and stepped away from the door. Standing with chin held high, Dok seemed to be pointedly ignoring her, until his head dipped in the direction of the Cold Storage room once.

Mouthing her thanks, Winkle quietly scampered into the clinic. Nearly blind, she tripped several times before slipping into the storage room. She was about to seal it shut when the infirmary door squeaked opened then closed. Winkle froze, hands holding the iron-bolted door open a crack. In the distance, jackboots clicked across the tile infirmary floor but stopped near the entrance. The sound of voices filtered into the storage room.

"Morning Doktor."

"Yes, is it, isn't is," he agreed, bored. " What brings you here, Blitz? You ought to be heading for your coffin; sunrise is in twenty minutes. "

Fabric rustled.

"Ohh, a songbird bit me."

Latex smoothed over skin before a squish sounded.

"To the bone," the Doktor hummed impressed. "But if you got close enough to get bitten, I would say the fault is your own. Let this serve as a reminder."

Zorin snorted, "Eh, more interested in paying her back for the souvenir. She fly away?"

There was a pause.

"As all birds are want to do when the farmer's scythe begins to clearcut the field," he chided, tongue clicking several times. "Aggressive as always."

Zorin laughed once at that, "Hey, the birdy bit back."

"That she did, that she did," Dok muttered with disapproval. "Still, you haven't any pressing medical reasons for being here, Blitz. I suggest you leave."

Another throaty laugh.

"If you don't like your lab being in the middle, you shouldn't have let her feather a nest here."

"My facility, my rules. I needn't explain myself to you," he defended. "Leave. I will not ask politely again."

"Ja, ja..." Zorin assured and jackboots tapped against the tile. The door squeaked open again, and the steps stopped. A low whistle sounded. "...Doing some spring cleaning?"

"Blitz," Dok ground tersely.

The woman gave a harsh, barking laugh at his annoyance.

"Ciao Dok," Blitz snickered, then called louder."Catch you later, Songbird."

Heels clicked together in a salute then the door creaked closed.

The tapping of boots faded down the hall, only to be replaced by the slap of soft-soled shoes walking across the infirmary. There was a tug on the iron-bolted door and Winkle let the handle go. The entrance swung open to reveal the Doktor's hazy form, but due to poor eyesight, she could read little from the man.

Winkle squinted as a bleary, latex hand came toward her face. Meal glinted on the white palm. She took the offered item, recognizing the spectacles by feel before placing them on the bridge of her nose. Dok's serious face came into clarity.

"Thank you," she mumbled, having difficulty holding the steely gaze.

The Doktor said nothing, upper lip curling in repugnance. Crooking a commanding finger in her direction, he turned and exited the Cold Storage room. After laying the dress shirt flaps over each other to hide her open chest and buttoning the suit jacket closed, Winkle hung her head and trailed after him.

* * *

Notes:

Winkle you got some splainin' to do.

1\. About the whole choking thing: do bootleg vampires need air? No, but they like it. They wouldn't be able to use their sense of smell or talk otherwise. Oxygen deprivation might not kill them, but someone squeezing the hell outta ya hurts.

2\. Zorin's bullying is dark, huh? If you thought this was rough, head up, it's gonna get way worse. Remember, Zorin's a sadistic psychopath who enjoys torturing others mentally and physically for kicks. Everyone's kinda an insect to her. What, you weren't expecting her to be a good person, right? Didn't think so. Zorin leaves and listens to Dok because one, he made her and can destroy her; two, he has a higher rank, but she toes the line; and lastly, the chase is part of the fun.

3\. And Zorin just speaks in music-related puns all the fuck'n time. Hey, she thinks she's funny. Totally not thinking of Mr. Freeze at all, nono.


	5. Chapter 5

With a sullen expression, Winkle followed the Doktor's bloodstained back to the laboratory. He led her to the office space in the corner, then ordered her to stop with a raised palm. She stopped stiffly and watched as he sat in his chair and swiveled it around to face her.

"You lied," he accused bluntly.

"I… I wha–"

"–You lied to me about the initial altercation between you two."

"I didn't...I just forgot to mention-"

"–A lie of omission is still the absence of truth," he snubbed, and her jaw clicked shut. "It wasn't a mere argument about singing in the shower stalls, was it?"

"...No," she admitted quietly.

"Finally, that silver tongue speaks the truth for once," he criticized with a snort. Opening a metal filing drawer, he tossed a rag at her: a reward for honesty. Catching it, Winkle wiped her blood encrusted mouth and tear-streaked cheeks before dropping it on the desk. "If this happens again, our deal is over. I will not have my facility become a playground for your shenanigans!" Dok spat, hands balling into tight fists so quickly latex gloves squeaked.

"But she's the one being cruel!" Winkle lamented.

At that, he gave a sharp, nasal laugh and mocked, "Cruel? _Cruel_?! Consider yourself fortunate. If she had been, you'd be on a slab being harvested for spare parts. You think you're the first to bare the brunt of Blitz's affections?"

Winkle blinked. Her mouth opened to reply, closed, then opened again.

"...What?"

Dok's mouth twisted; "What do you mean what?"

She stared owlishly in return before replying, "... _Affection_ s?"

"You seriously-what did you think she was _doing_?" Dok asked with disbelief.

Winkle grimaced, shrugged, and answered again, "...Being cruel?"

The man's brow furrowed as reflective lenses scrutinized her face.

"True enough, but there's more at play," he muttered after a moment, seeming to gather that she was thick but truthful. After pulling a face, he sighed and rose to his feet. "Perhaps this might offer some illumination on your end. You said she wouldn't let you into the mess hall, correct?"

"Yes," she answered with a nod.

"Show me, stop me as she did you," Dok ordered suddenly and took a determined stride forward.

Immediately, Winkle darted at him exactly as Zorin had her, though with far less intensity; the man wasn't as durable as his creations. Thrusting her sternum forward, they collided chest against chest. The force made the Doktor falter, and he stepped back. Catching his footing, he tried to pass her again, only for Winkle to quickly check his boney body backward harder than before. He stumbled further than the last attempt but still straightened.

He tried once more, and Winkle slammed against him without hesitation, forcing a gasp from him this time. Windmilling his arms, the Doktor tripped and fell back into his seat stiff as a scarecrow. Metal wheels screeched across the floor until the chairback smashed into the desk. Stacks of papers toppled to the ground is a flourish, but he seemed not to care. It wasn't as if he'd be cleaning up the mess.

"Good, good," he began, straightening crooked spectacles. "Now, given Blitz's physical prowess if she really wanted to stop you from feeding, what do you suppose she'd do?"

Winkle worried jigsaw teeth and thought about her colleague. Zorin had easily beheaded her meal in the mess hall, but that was a poor example of the woman's monstrous strength. Back before her current predicament, she'd witnessed many an arm wrestling match between Zorin and the rest of the Batallion. No one, except Günsche, had ever beaten the woman. If he lost a round, Günsche would point to the sky, indicating that the moon wasn't ripe enough. The other troops often weathered their losses with dislocated joints, broken bones, or worse.

"Rip me limb from limb," Winkle thought aloud. "Then toss me overboard come sunrise?"

"That's a fair hypothesis," Dok agreed with a nod. "Now, she's cruel, I hear you cry, and yes, that analysis has some merit, but there's more data." He reached for the metal filing cabinet beside him and opened the drawer with a shrill squeak. After thumbing through dozens of overstuffed, dog-eared folders, he pulled out a thick valennal envelope and slapped it on the desk. The dossier had the name Zorin Blitz written across it in bold, dark letters. Opening the envelope, he removed a smaller file pressed between the papers and handed it to her. Winkle accepted and flipped the blotchy old paper over in her hands. Gesturing to the file, he clipped, "If you want to waste time feeling sorry for yourself, so be it. But consider the following first."

Winkle curiously opened it, eyes growing round. Inside were dozens of pictures, black and white and then colorized polaroids as the decades went on, of what could only be called pure carnage. All were autopsy photos and each documented the remains of various women, the local fair.

All of the corpses were mangled as though they'd been through a thresher. Most were missing their arms and legs. The appendages had been ripped off at the socket, like a child picking the wings off an insect. Others had their limbs contorted into unnatural positions: knots, bows, pretzels, and curlicues. The methodical, brutal torture and the deep bites that peppered their dead, sallow skin made the culprit clear: this was Zorin's handiwork.

"Why?" she asked, looking up at him.

"Why what?"

"Why would you collect this?"

Dok scuffed, "What a stupid question. Naturally, I document as many aspects of vampiric physiology and behavior as possible, copulation included. These, as I'm sure you recognize, are the leftovers of Zorin's affairs. And, as you can see, your situation could be a lot worse."

"Because she didn't knot me like a pretzel yet!?" Winkle cried.

"Obviously, that would count as a positive," he deadpanned.

"Okay, so if you know so much, how do I stop this?"

He gave a single, mocking cackle.

"Oh, it's too late for that-you've already reciprocated."

"No, I didn't!"

"You did!" he insisted. "I told you from the beginning, no direction confrontation and what did you do? First, you tried to appease her, and then you bit her!"

"It was self-defense!"

He snorted, "That doesn't matter. To Blitz, violence is foreplay. If you struggle, all the better. This is a game to her, Winkle."

Winkle opened her mouth and raised a finger to dispute the Doktor's words, but it flagged as she remembered Zorin's reactions. Her every attempt at self-defense had been taken lightly. In the shower, the punch had only provoked an attack. Then, when she'd dashed for the infirmary, the look Zorin had given her hadn't been one of anger or revenge, even though she'd bitten a perfect semicircle out of the woman's forearm. No, the other had smiled with amusement, as though her attempts a defense were funny. Her eyes widened as the woman's words ran through her mind again: if that's how you want to play, I'm game.

"...It is a game to her," Winkle gasped.

"About time, you caught on," Dok snipped and took the folder from her. "My advice? Play along, unless you want to end up like this," he warned and waved the papers under her nose before stuffing them back into the dossier. After the envelope was filed, he paused and added, "Though, considering this morning's events, it's likely she will up the ante now that you've drawn blood."

Winkle groaned. Cupping her face, she complained bitterly to her palms.

"Stop sulking and speak up," he reprimanded.

She raised her head and repeated, "I don't know how to play along. I've never played...a game like this before." His mouth opened, and she was quick to add, "And don't say figure it out, one wrong move and I'll end up on a slab instead of cleaning them!"

"Tone," he criticized, and Winkle merely gave him a sideways glance. "Before you interrupted, I was going to offer my assistance."

"Why?" she questioned, eyes narrowing, "Concerned about your facility?"

"Tone," he pressed.

"Well?" she hedged exasperatedly. "You aren't a charity, remember?"

Magnified eyes rolled then glanced away briefly.

"...Your assistance, by no mean flawless, hasn't been without...benefits," he admitted with difficulty. Winkle's eyebrows rose in shock. Those were the nicest words he had ever said to her. "Also, the recent development between you and Blitz flies in the face of all the information I've gathered, so if you'd start the tale anew and with details this time-"

"–T-that's perverse!" Winkle sputtered and refused, head shaking so rapidly glasses slipped down her nose.

"It's for science," he insisted seriously, already fishing a notepad and pen from his pocket before proposing. "The more you volunteer, the easier it will be to offer hypotheses that might help you. Although Blitz seems to enjoy toying with you, that doesn't mean she won't kill you."

The deal was deepening. She was now to feed the Doktor information, and he'd help in return if he choose. Covering her face once again, Winkle bit her lip and considered the proposal. It was doubtful the situation could get any more uncomfortable. Also, Zorin had heeded the Doktor's orders and left the clinic, though not without backtalk. Perhaps more of his insight might be useful, surely hiding out in his domain seemed to be.

Raising her head, she tried several times to articulate what had happened after Zorin had tackled her, but the words hitched in her throat at every attempt. After a time, Dok's face lined with boredom. Tired of her stalling, he set the pad down on the desk and was about to rise to his feet when she firmly guided him back into the office chair by the shoulder. Though annoyance wrinkled his brow and he shrugged out of her grip, Dok sat back down.

"This is humiliating," she offered.

"Would you expect it to be anything else?" He questioned. "Using physical strength and pain points to assert superiority is Blitz's modus operandi. Of course relaying those events would be humiliating, that's the point. Now, get on with it."

Worrying razor teeth, she came close to his side. Latex squeaked as he picked up the pad and pen once more and she gulped nervously. Bending down, she cupped a hand around his ear to whisper enough to appease him.

"It all started in the shower..." she admitted softly and watched the words appeared in rapid shorthand across the Doktor's pad. As the memories of that night came back, they spilled from her in an angry flood. With a huff, she stood straight, hand coming to white-knuckle the back of his office chair as she ranted, " _Oh_ , it all started over a stupid argument! She kept saying my singing sounded like a banshee screaming, so I _obliged_ her." The sudden swell of emotion made her grind pointed teeth, and she almost missed the slight smile playing along the Doktor's lips. "Surprisingly, she didn't like that either, so she yanked the record from the player– _scratching it_! And she's so damn tall, I couldn't get it back, so I hit her...and then..." she slowed, temper subsiding.

"She hit you," Dok supplied, pen pausing for a second. Winkle nodded and recalled how Zorin's face had lit up the moment she had dared to throw a punch at the muscled stomach. The blow had done nothing except entice. Zorin had returned the strike with a grin and thrown her backward onto the slippery bathroom floor. Noticing she was lost in thought, he forced her on. "And then?"

"I fell, and she tackled me. We started fighting, or, at least, I thought so...and that's when she pinned me and...she…"

"Yes?"He questioned with an annoyed edge.

"I lost the fight," she acknowledged. His eyebrow arched and Winkle sighed and added mutely, "And then she said she'd really give me something to scream about and...um...and…um..."

The memory of how the woman had held her down, muscled body pressing her on all fours to the warm, wet tile flared to life again. Winkle shivered as she recalled how calloused fingers had knotted through the dark hair on her scalp. A deep blush began to color undead cheeks at the memory.

After latching onto long locks, Zorin had smashed her cheek onto the shower floor. The woman had forced her face down and back up as hard, slick thighs propped her legs up and pinned them apart. Although Zorin could have ripped her limb from limb, the woman did do exactly as promised without bloodshed; she'd truly given her something to scream about. The gentle rhythm of wet fingers and been the cruelest act of all, not only had it made her cry just as Zorin wanted, she'd mindlessly begged for more as the woman slowly worked her open.

The Doktor cleared his throat. Pulled from her thoughts again, Winkle jumped and glanced down to find yellow eyes staring over the rims of lens loups. Lips pursed, he tapped the tip of the pen against the paper.

Sighing through her nose, Winkle bent and reiterated the memory that had made her face burn into his ear. Immediately, he took down the account in shorthand. Though the mess of symbols is hard to decipher, having never been trained in the art herself, she felt her blush deepened with every line added. When she finally admitted how Zorin had made her scream the pen stopped, and Dok let out a sudden, barking laugh.

Eyes saucer-round, Winkle fisted her hair and cried, "What's so _funny_?!"

"My, my so kind, aren't you a fortunate one," he mocked. Lenses glanced at her, and the man laughed again at her pained expression. "You're an idiot."

She groaned and screwed her eyes shut, unable to bare his awful smile and moaned, "You're always so mean! This is the last time I'll ever–"

A latex finger flicked her forehead.

"She likes you."

Blue eyes snapped open at the words. She scuffed then pulled a face.

"Impossible."

"Must we review the folder again?" he asked condescendingly and gestured to the filing cabinet. "Facts are facts. You are not dead or mutilated beyond repair; rather it seems that you enjoyed the experience." He paused even as she made an embarrassed sound in the back of her throat. "What? Have you any evidence to convince me otherwise?" Winkle bit her lip and shook her head that she didn't. It had felt terribly, horrifyingly good. A smile tugged at his lips then, and her stomach knotted at the lecherous expression. "Then, as I suggested before, enjoy it, play along." She clicked her teeth and looked away, causing a sigh from the man. "What _now_?"

"Women shouldn't…behave like this."

"Well, you aren't women, not any longer. Look around you; this Batallion is the last, true remaining pride of the Reich. With these hands, I've made you more than human, _almost a God_! There are no mortal tethers to bind you. Why should morality even trouble you now? Shouldn't, wouldn't, can't– _bah_! Those are excuses for the weak. _You_ are a hunter, and it's time you started _acting_ like one!"

"But you said no confront–""

"–Forget what I said before! I've told you it's too late for that now," he scoffed and flicked a hand in her direction as though tossing the thought away. " _Attack back_! Keeping her amused means keeping your skin. You have been transformed into an embodiment of greed and lust–the undying, unquenchable, insatiable desire to consume is in your nature now. You are a _devourer_ : that is what a vampire _is_. You survive off the blood, flesh–the very _life_ of others! You are a carnal creature! The dark passions that once burned within your moral frame as a mere ember are now a roiling, eternal flame– _use them_ , _damn you_!" he cried, hands clenching the air in fervor.

Winkle could only stare at the panting man. His rant made warped sense; her God-given design, all that once was, had been transformed into a weapon for the glory of Millennium, the Letzte Batallion, and unending warfare. Winkle had long understood that she was a monster and not human, preferred it too, but her ability to compare between the two was hampered. Any mortal passions, aside from anger, bloodlust, and revenge for the Fatherland, were lost.

The memories of civilian life, The Great War, and the rise of the Reich came in pieces. The recollections flashed through her mind like a film reel skipping, too fast and rarely in consecutive parts to make sense. Simply, Winkle couldn't completely remember what life had been like before her rebirth, as the Doktor liked to refer to his night of the Hellsing Organization raid came the clearest, but perhaps that was due to the Major.

The beloved Sturmbannführer had a huge collection films from historical parades and marches, countless boxes of surveillance footage, and movies from the Reich and abroad. A fan of cinematography and the technological trappings that came with it, the Major made the Doktor outfit every base with a state-of-the-art surveillance system. Why he demanded such things and hoarded footage, she didn't know. It wasn't her place to question. Rather, as the Major suggested, she thought of it a little secret of theirs.

When she'd woken from her transformation confused, the Major had happily taken her under his wing, fielded questions, and revealed to her what had occurred: the raid, the children who had all but destroy them, and their escape to the wilds of Brazil. On the many monitors in the command room, the Major had played the confrontation between her and the girl-no, Samiel, the Devil. The silent image of the maniacal child in white still haunted her. After accidentally grabbing the wrong glasses in panic, she'd blindly run into the tiny enemy. In the confusion, the Devil's coffin had easily knocked her out with a solid chop to the back of the head before she could even fire a single shot.

The Major had tittered with laughter when she was struck and even rewound the footage to show it again and again. With glee, he'd informed her of the fractured skull, cerebral hemorrhage and how she'd been whisked to a makeshift operating room during their flight from Warsaw. The Major was always quick to point out: had it not been for Millennium and the Doktor's services, you would have slept the rest of your life away, Rip van Winkle.

And as she stared down at the Doktor, who in her silent recollection had begun to snarl at her for what he surely perceived to be stupidity, Winkle wondered what she had lost about her previous life. Running fingers along the back of her head, she felt the shorn hair and then the slight, permanent dip in the back of her skull.

"Interesting speech and all, but it's a little lost on me. I forget there was a time before this...sometimes," she admitted softly, fingering the soft hollow in her head.

The strained rage lining the Doktor's face relaxed at her words, seeming to gather she wasn't thick on purpose.

"...Yes," he began after a moment, hand coming to stroke his chin. "Your condition and experimental creation attributed to certain...defects." She shrugged at the words, remembering how displeased he had been with her poor eyesight after her rebirth too. Always room for improvement. "Perhaps that's why you're so slow on the uptake. Have you any recollections of intercourse?" he asked abruptly, making her bristle. Cheeks beet red now, Winkle quickly shook her head no. He gave a hum in thought before adding, "I will only ask this once, do you want a demonstration? It might jog your memory or help give you the confidence to play along. "

The frankness of the question made her swallow thickly and look away. She wasn't certain if learning or remembering anything about intimacy would help with Zorin. Words like intercourse and affection seemed too clinical, removed, and kind to describe what the other was doing. Also, she had no idea what such an offer from the Doktor entailed, but refusal might prevent further assistance as the man was fickle. And being unable to remember humanity did leave one with unanswered questions sometimes. Worrying razor teeth, Winkle winced and gave a hesitant nod yes.

Without a word, the Doktor rose to his feet and headed toward the back of the laboratory. In confusion, Winkle watched his back disappear behind stained curtains. In the distance, wood creaked and then the shuffle of something heavy being lifted sounded. Stained dividers fluttered as he returned carrying a full-length mirror nearly as long as he was tall.

For all the improvements he imparted to others, Dok was weak. Thin, outstretched arms shook with the effort of bringing the mirror to his office space. With a jerk of his head, he ordered her away from the desk, then rested the mirror back against the lip of the tabletop. The placement was precarious, but he didn't seem to notice and grabbed the office chair. He drug the screeching wheels across the floor until the chair stood a few paces away from the center of the mirror and sat down.

Lenses looked at her as he crooked a finger in her direction. Winkle shrunk a step away instead, which only made the gesture more forceful. She silently conceded and walked to his side. The Doctor was going to be brusque and factual it seemed.

"Remove this," he ordered and gave her pant leg a sharp tug.

The assumption had been correct. She swallowed thickly and stepped out of her shoes. Fumbling for her belt, Winkle realized she had disrobed for the Doctor before, but never like this. Embarrassment coiled in her chest as the slacks and undergarments fell to the floor, belt buckle clinking against the tile. Standard procedure, she tried to convince herself. The entire Batallion had endured countless hours of scrutiny, examination, and experimentation. Was this so different? Her knotting stomach said yes.

Lower half now bare, she worried the hem of her suit jacket nervously. With an index finger, the Doctor gestured to her, then to his lap. Sit. Her feet refused to move. Mouth twisting, he pointed toward his lap again, finger poking his leg.

"I don't have all day!" he snapped, making her jump.

Gritting jigsaw teeth, she sat down stiffly with knees together. Winkle spared the mirror a glance. Her pale, scared reflection stared back as the Doktor's grave face loomed over her shoulder. Wringing thin toes together, she looked away. Latex hands gripped the meat of each thigh and pulled. Winkle let him drape her legs apart on either side of his own without resistance, face burning all the while.

"Look," he demanded.

Winkle didn't until fingers gripped her chin and guided her to face the mirror. She stared again at the wild-eyed, flushing creature who gazed uncertainly back. A palm slid beneath the underside of her left inner thigh then, and she watched it come to cup the swell of her bottom. After lifting her leg up and to the side, long fingers reached to spread pink folds. The sight made her eyes dart away from the mirror, blush spilling down her neck and clavicle.

"Touch yourself," he ordered, hand leaving her face. Reaching down, she reluctantly did. Fingertips worked briefly over cold, moist flesh. The touch did nothing. She worried that she might be unable to do this and frowned as embarrassment constricted her chest. "Not very satisfying, is it?" he asked and pushed her hand away.

Winkle shook her head no then glanced at the door, fighting the urge to leap off his lap and run.

"That's because you're blindly groping, watch," he instructed, hitching her leg higher. A second hand wedged beneath her right leg then and reached up to spread her for a better display. The index and middle fingers of each hand gently swiped up dry skin. "The labia majora," he informed. Fingers then skimmed down moist skin, making her thighs shake as he breathed, "and labia minora." Pads undulated softly on either side as he murmured in her ear, "Soft, delicate, you can think of these as your second pair of lips."

Legs starting to close, Winkle grimaced and shuddered at the description. Tongue clicking at her reaction, Dok shook his head. The latex hands beneath her guided pale thighs apart once more. This time, fingers pulled back soft folds to hold her obscenely open for the mirror. Embarrassed tears prickling her eyes, she watched her sex clench the air as he rested a digit over the small hole.

"You know what this is, yes?" He asked, and she nodded quickly, biting her lip bloody. "Say it."

"...Vagina."

"Close enough," he clipped and pressed against the opening for emphasis, fingertip disappearing. Winkle jolted at the intrusion; the touch wasn't painful, but neither was it pleasant. He withdrew, skimming the damp, latex digit up to the next opening. "Uthertua," he noted absently, nudging the tiny slit, "but above it," he continued, finger hovering over the hood of skin, "is the clitoris."

He pressed down and in reflection her loins tensed. The fingertip went back and forth slowly. Winkle sucked air through serrated teeth as phantom tingles of pleasure made her thighs tremor. Neck reclining, she looked away from the mirror, startled by the tightening in the pit of her stomach.

"Think of what she did to you," he breathed in the shell of her ear.

And the scene played through her mind again: Zorin's iron grip holding her down by the back of the head, legs forced wide by muscular thighs while fingers worked over wet, yielding flesh. She groaned at the memory, toes curling. Suddenly, a hand beneath her was removed. Winkle gave a start as one of her wrists was grabbed. Mouth forming a small O, she released the death-grip on the legs supporting her, not having realized she'd begun to dig viciously into the Doktor.

After she let go, the same hand cupped her own. He wordlessly guided her to touch between splayed legs until she brushed slick lips. Winkle shuddered and stilled at the sensation. An annoyed sigh came from behind as latex fingers pressed her reluctant ones to rub against the swollen nub. She began to copy the motion. When breath kept catching in her throat, he seemed satisfied.

His hand withdrew as he gave a hum of approval, and slid beneath the swell of her ass again. Both hands palmed round globes before spreading her for the mirror once more. Winkle's head tipped back as she started to knead her soft sex with enthusiasm. An unbidden moan came from her throat. This wasn't so terrible. Lust coiled in her belly as she watched naked hips start to writhe in the reflection, forcing wet folds to rub back against her hand.

She thought of the shower again and how she'd pushed back after a time, taking rough fingers deeper as Zorin had laughed and laughed. Eyes starting to flutter closed as she daydreamed, Winkle began to relax, back coming to rest on the warm, thin chest behind her, head lolling against a sharp shoulder.

She remembered Zorin had cruelly snagged her hair. Using dark locks like a rope, the woman had yanked her back in time to match the thrust of calloused fingers. The memory made her swallow thickly and rub harder, coming to mash slick folds. A surprised moan leaped from her throat, eyes snapping open as sudden, blunt pressure registered.

The panting, flustered creature splayed across the Doktor's lap in the mirror looked unfamiliar; the moment felt unreal. But the warmth beneath her served as a reminder that this was happening. The disheveled, wanton reflection was her and no one else.

Desperate to look away, blue eyes looked down only to widen as she found what had startled her. One of the Doktor's hands had crept between parted legs and strange, joined fingers now rested in the middle of spread lips, pressing against her opening. The sight made thighs tremor anew. So lewd.

Winkle spared a glimpse at the severe reflection behind her in the mirror. Reflective lenses gave the impression of unblinking omnipotence, but the color dusting gaunt cheeks showed that the Doktor was indeed flesh and blood and not unaffected. Biting bleeding lips, she rocked against the offered hand. There was no resistance. Latex glided wetly. Eyes lidded, she began to buck enjoying the slick slide. Her legs widened, and feet came to hook around wiry calves for leverage. Without warning, syndactyly fingers crooked. Winkle gasped as the motion of her hips accidently drove them inside. The fit was wonderfully, achingly snug.

Hips stuttered then stilled. Winkle watched her panting reflection and realized that this is how she must have looked to Zorin in the shower stalls: red-faced, tousled, and stretched. Bringing an embarrassed hand to her face, she shuddered and clenched around the strange fingers inside her.

"Now is not the time to be demure," he reprimanded, hand giving shallow thrusts.

Winkle arched immediately. Hand falling away from her mouth, she reached behind to grab the Doktor's shoulder as she cried out. Rocking in primal rhythm, Winkle thought of Zorin and how they had fought. The woman's smile had been vicious, laugh callous, but her firm touch hadn't been violent-well, not excessively. The slow, smoldering burn coursing through her blood now was reminiscent of that day, and the realization made her spine curve and toes curl.

Carnal and addictive, she rubbed harder and sat up abruptly, forcing his fingers deeper. Free hand grasping the back of her knee, Dok tutted and guided her back against him, repositioning her body for the visual. In the mirror, she watched as the latex hand pistoned in and out and moan lowly at the sight.

"You like this?" he breathed, and she nodded quickly. Suddenly, his fingers slipped out. "Then do it yourself."

Greedy fingers immediately dove in, and Winkle yelped as her sharp nails scraped soft walls. She gave a pained whine. Legs curled up to her chest. No good. Frowning, she sighed and glanced at her the prone reflection; fingers still lodged within while the other hand rested idly on the curve her mons. Lenses glinting, Dok tilted his head to the side, angling to see between spread legs.

Clicking his tongue, he muttered, "Impatient, now, are you?"

His damp latex hand cupped her idle one, puppeting her to rub in small circles. Winkle's thighs tensed then fell open as the pain began to fade. Head tipping back to rest on his jutting collarbone, she began to copy the motion and groaned at the sensation. Eyes squeezing shut, her back arched again. The fingers withdrew, but she hardly noticed, able to build her pleasure alone now.

Breathy moans escaped her throat, and she remembered how Zorin had laughed at the sound, mocking her for it. Rough fingers had crooked to make her voice climb higher, or as Zorin had put it, to help her practice scales. Winkle felt herself tighten at the memory and bent her fingers. The surge of pleasure that strummed through her came by surprise. Her eyes flew open but rolled back. Razor teeth clamped down to muffle a scream. Blood dripping down her chin hips stuttered then stilled.

Letting out a sigh, Winkle went limp against the panting chest and glanced at her sprawled reflection. Removing wet fingers, she wiped the slickness on a naked thigh and drew a shaky breath. Watching herself, she considered the vestiges of pleasure still coursing through her. It felt familiar but didn't stir any memories save for what Zorin had done. Perhaps she had taken lovers before but the memory, if it had ever existed, was gone like so much of the past.

What mattered now and forevermore was Millennium and surviving until the day they would once again rage war. If learning to play this game would help her see that glorious day come to pass, so be it. Now that she was beginning to understand it, Zorin was starting to seem less terrifying, if only just. She could learn to enjoy this. And although the demonstration hadn't made the past any clear, it had boosted her confidence somewhat. She could do this.

Winkle smiled at little to herself, fingers starting to rub idly between spread legs, not ready to stop after such a discovery. When she arched into the touch, the legs beneath her angled down as latex hands dug into her hips and gave a hard shove. With a yelp, she fell and landed butt first on the cold floor.

"Seems you're already accomplished," Dok clipped, wheels screeching as he stood. Whipping her head around, Winkle watched as he briskly turned and walked off into the laboratory. "I've already dismissed you for the day, leave."

"But–"

"– _Now_."

Standing on shaky legs, she stared dumbfounded after the Doktor's bloodstained back as he disappeared behind the rows of stained dividers. Quick footfalls sounded deeper into the room. A curtain whisked open then closed with a swish before silence fell. Confusion knitting her brow, she shook her head, unable to fathom the quick change in his mood. Hadn't he been the one to suggest this?

Quickly gathering her clothing, Winkle tripped and fumbled into her clothes and shoes. Tucking in her shirt, she glanced at the mirror and grimaced. Wild tangles of dark hair framed her bloody face. Lips still bleeding from how deeply she'd bitten them, blood continued to dribble onto her ripped shirt. Her appearance wasn't an easy fix. Damnit. Hopefully, the majority of the fleet would be asleep. Clicking pointed teeth, she quickly left the Doktor's facility and snuck out into the hallway.

In the center of the hall lay several splinters of lacquered chestnut wood. Oh, no! Winkle bit her bleeding lip again, fists curling in anger and regret. In her panic to escape from Zorin, she'd forgotten the phonograph in the hall, and had been too distracted to remember it while in the medical facility. Now it was gone. Not only had she broken the player, but it had been stolen as well. Damn it, damn it, damn it!

Clawing at her face in grief, Winkle stomped her feet like a petulant child. Since this hall was rarely visited, the culprit wasn't difficult to guess. Zorin had probably taken the player. Letting out a strangled moan, Winkle sagged and began to trudge back to her room. Unfortunately, nothing could be done about it now, but the nagging feeling that with would come back to bite her lingered

* * *

Notes:

So, is this officially the worst fanfic ever yet or what? That chapter really goes on and on. I tried to edit it down. If you can follow along without getting confused, good/I'm so sorry for you.

1\. ib4, "But if Dok's a weak nerd how can he move Winkle around on his lap? Surely, with her with vampiric strength, he couldn't." Well, you're right, he can't. Winkle lets him. He's physically inferior to all his creations, hence the remote to terminate those who misbehave, have reached the end of their usefulness, or whatever. Winkle reluctantly lets him do what he wants: a high-ranking officer who can kill her at will, saved her life (sorta), made her what she is, and helps her if he gets something in return. Soooo not a healthy relationship, but come on, it's Millennium.

2\. Yea, no. None of this is okay and it's only going to get worse. This story is 100% horrible. Dok's a manipulative creep, Zorin is a bad-touch bully, and Winkle's a villainous victim. And Dok's advice is _literally_ the _worst thing ever_ : _do not_ learn to enjoy or accept abuse. It doesn't matter if your body has a pleasurable reaction, it isn't your fault and it's still assault/rape. Everyone in this fic is a bad person or being fed bad information. This ain't 50 Shades of Shit, all of it is inexcusable and I won't pretend otherwise.

3\. Winkle's the way Winkle is due to head trauma, weird science and brainwashing via propaganda. Cool? Cool. Other people give her a backstory, but I was too lazy/didn't see a point. I think it's more tragic if she doesn't remember and supplements parts of her missing self with Der Freischütz.

4\. I don't think Winkle being sexually ignorant is that weird either (as sex doesn't seem that important to her: guns, opera, training and Millennium are, everything else is secondary) especially since her mental slate has been wiped clean. She probably had lovers, but can't remember.

5\. And Major's a creepy motherfucker too. Kinda based his love of cinematography off someone I know, but I think the constant monitoring works with giving Millennium a 1984/Salon Kitty vibe.


	6. Chapter 6

Tiptoeing around rays of light, Winkle quietly crept back to her room. The dirigible wasn't shielded nor was the outside grotto pitch back. Light filtered through the drum-like canopy of the Zeppelin and softly streamed between the cracks in the metal plating of the hallways. The garish sunlight made the halls of Deus Ex Machina seem like an even older relic of war than it was.

Luckily, the fleet was asleep save for a few guards on duty. The bored few that remained awake were easy enough to slip by, as she didn't want rumors of her disheveled appearance going around. Avoiding the light and her comrades, Winkle snuck down that hall like a willowy shadow. Her room, like the rest of the Batallion's, was stationed on deck B, but due to her rank, she was closer to the command room than the majority of the troops.

She ground her teeth together as she walked. The brief shock of pleasure she'd felt in the lab had long since faded to fatigue. Although thoroughly drained, her sporadic mind continued to dwell on this morning's events: Zorin's attack in the hall, the Doktor's unusual demonstration, the abrupt dismissal, and the broken, stolen phonograph. Dok's words rang through her mind: she likes you.

Winkle scowled. Was Zorin playing this game because she liked her? Relationships weren't her forte, but the more she considered the Doktor's words, the less truthful they seemed. She thought of the autopsy photos again, expression worsening as the images came to mind. Simply being left alive and mostly whole didn't seem like affection, far from it. Dok's analysis seemed wrong.

And worse, how on earth was she supposed to get the phonograph back? If Zorin had taken it, that added another awful layer to her dilemma. Although she wasn't sure what the other would do to the player, it would most likely be used to torment her. Still, such worries could afford to wait for a few hours; she needed to rest.

With a grateful sigh, Winkle opened the door to her room. The door squeaked opened on rusty hinges, and she dashed inside. For a single occupant, the room was nicely sized in comparison to the accommodations the other troops received. If she lay on the ground with arms held overhead, she would have been as tall as the room was wide from either end. Enveloped in familiar darkness, she closed her eyes, gave another content sigh and leaned against the door. Sanctuary. Suddenly, her nose wrinkled as she caught an out of place scent.

Without another warning, Winkle was struck across the cheek hard. Head whipping against the door with a thud, her glasses flew off her nose and clattered to the floor. She tittered from the force but managed to stay standing. Gasping in pained surprise, she reached to feel her throbbing skull only to choke as the sole of a boot planted against her throat, pinning her up against the entrance.

Windpipe crushed, she could only wheeze as flint cracked once against steel then sparked to life. A floating flame appeared in the center of the room. In the flickering light of a lighter, a blurry half face appeared with a cigarette clamped between smirking lips. Though her vision was poor, pseudo-vampiric eyes caught the vague shape of the raised leg holding her upright and the tall, broad body it belonged to. Fear tightening her chest, Winkle clawed gouges into the leather of the boot trapping her. The cruel smile widened at her struggling. The grinning figure lit the end of the cigarette and extinguished the flame. The scent of fresh tobacco smoke filled the cabin.

The hazy red cherry danced in the darkness as Zorin laughed and cooed, "Well well, look what I caught–told you I would."

Winkle gurgled, realizing the Doktor had been horribly correct about one thing, Zorin was indeed raising the stakes in their game. The woman had never hit her before, not without being provoked first. Oh, damn it. She'd prepared to fuck Zorin, not fight her. Well, no. That wasn't true. The demonstration had been to jog her memory and instill confidence. But the lesson seemed entirely moot now; Dok hadn't told her how to implement any of things she'd shown her on another.

"What's a matter? You're usually so vocal," Zorin teased, boot crunching down. Winkle's mouth gaped silently as the bones and tensions in her throat began to snap. "What, got nothing to say?"

The pressure lessened, and she drew a rattling breath.

"W-whhy…?"

"I don't answer stupid questions," Zorin said simply, heel pressing down again for emphasis."Don't tell me you forgot where we left off or is your brain on intermission?" Winkle gurgled again before the pressure eased off. She gulped air but didn't reply. How could she have possibly forgotten what happened earlier this morning? But such a jibe didn't merit a response.

Silence seemed to be the wrong answer. Zorin leaned forward again. Vertebra popping under the pressure, Winkle gagged and struggled. Her nails raked ribbons into the strong woman's pant leg. The sole of Zorin's boot lifted slightly. Winkle wheezed and watched as the other raised a blurry forearm, probably the one she'd bitten earlier. "How booorrring...you really gotta work on that memory of yours, where's the fun if you don't remember shit?"

Winkle scowled and bared jigsaw teeth at the insult. Although fear fluttered through her, rage started to smolder. Zorin had assaulted, starved, and now dared to invade the privacy of her room. Furthermore, she belittled everything! Her intelligence, talents, and passions seemed to be nothing but a joke to Zorin. The woman was just as unstoppable and inexorable as the reaper she claimed to be.

The Doktor's words filtered through her mind again: using physical strength and pain points to assert superiority is Blitz's modus operandi. This was humiliating because it was intended to be so. And as Winkle glared hatefully at the hazy, grinning face before her, she realized that had probably been the truest statement Dok had said all evening. Zorin couldn't like her, not in any traditional sense that she'd heard about. That was too sentimental an answer; it had to be a lie.

The bodies, the intricate carnage of it all told a simpler story: Zorin was bored. Now, that made more sense. Dok had mentioned that keeping the other woman entertained meant keeping her skin. The bodies in the autopsy photos had been so methodically torn apart, like a child playing. If Zorin was bored and this was, in fact, a game, then all the torture, all of this was for _fun_.

The realization made her mouth slack open, and Zorin's smile twisted at the expression. Dok must have embellished the truth earlier. The woman didn't like her; she liked subjugating her because it was fun! As a F.R.E.A.K., she was far more durable than any human, harder to rip apart. Since she was a hunter, it was an embarrassing reversal to be hunted in return. Also, their similar rank made being dominated all the more humiliating. Exactly Zorin's tastes–oh no.

"Ahh–now I see you're ready for Act II," Zorin noted, misinterpreting her shock.

The boot moved away. Winkle gasped and doubled over as she grabbed her sore throat. Although momentarily free, there was no hope of escaping or beating Zorin, especially almost blind. For once, however, Winkle found herself not caring about the odds. Letting go of her bruised neck Winkle's hands began to ball into tight fists. Screw the evidence, damn the consequences, she was sick of this!

She was a hunter damn it! And a hunter was meant to kill, not work as a slave for their food and timidly scamper down the halls. She was supposed to be fearless! Zorin wasn't going to have fun at her expense, not without resistance. Even if it might only provoke the woman further. Besides, if she couldn't survive the wrath of her peers, how could she have ever thought that Millennium deserved her continued service in the first place? Better to die a hunter than as a frightened insect under the reaper's jackboot.

With inhuman speed, Winkle darted forward with arm raised and sharp fingers spread to claw at the grinning face. Before she could even swat the cherry off the cigarette, a hand snared her wrist in a vise and forced her backward. Thin shoulders thumped against the metal door as Zorin pressed her against it and pinned her arm overhead. With a grimace, Winkle tried to attack with her free hand, only to have it snagged as well and join its counterpart held above. _Shit_.

Pinned by her wrists in a steely, one-handed grip, Winkle lashed out with her feet. She struck Zorin's legs, but the woman's hold only tightened. Zorin easily stepped between thrashing limbs, rendering the blows useless. Winkle snarled as another hand ripped her belt off then and dove past the hem of her pants. Embarrassed tears pricked her eyes as she trashed. Zorin had been able to subdue her almost with a single hand. Searching, calloused fingers cupped her, and she groaned involuntarily as slick folds were spread apart.

"Look at you, you're already wet," Zorin scuffed but was unable to hide the hint of pride in her voice. Winkle jolted and barely managed to stifle a moan as a finger eased inside of her. Damn it, why did this feel good? It was monstrously loathsome and degrading, yet clenching around the invasive digit felt satisfying. "Now, we were about to make a deal before you bit me and darted off." A second finger joined the first and Winkle felt her knees buckle as she was stretched. Goddamnit. "Greedy little shit, I said I wanted the first bite, remember?"

After spitting the cigarette to the floor and outing it with a stomp of her foot, Zorin leaned in low. The brush of an open mouth against her neck made Winkle shiver. Fangs easily sank into flesh, and she choked on a hoarse scream. Lips began to suckle greedily then as fingers worked in and out mercilessly. The wet, squelching rhythm of the thrusts made her face burn and throat whimper.

To be fed from in such a manner was beyond humiliating. No doubt Zorin's exact intentions, yet pleasure wormed through her, making her blood burn and loins ache. It wasn't until the hungry mouth pulled away to laugh that Winkle realized she'd begun to lean against the other, chin having titled back submissively. Damnit! It was as though Zorin was a musician and she an instrument the other knew exactly how to play.

Remembering herself, Winkle snapped her head down with a glare, which only made the other laugh harder. The fingers pressed inside stilled then slowly spread apart. The scissoring stretch made her eyes roll back, and legs give way much to Zorin's snide amusement. Thighs shaking, Winkle sagged against the door, held upright only by an iron grip.

Teeth bit into her neck again, deeper than the last time. Voice breaking in her throat, blood-tinged tears spilled down freckled cheeks. Still holding her against the door, Zorin began to thrust fingers in time with her sucking until Winkle thought she might lapse into unconsciousness. Euphoria and pain melded together until every movement made her ache with an all-consuming need for more.

When Winkle finally succumbed and clenched aground the fingers working inside her with a choked gasp, Zorin lifted her head and licked blurry blood-drenched lips. Removing her fingers with a wet shick, Zorin smiled and raised the slick digits to lap the juices off her fingertips. Giving a grunt, the woman stopped and bent to sniff at her hand.

"You taste like...latex? " Zorin questioned. After wiping the mess in disgust on her suit jacket lapel, the woman let out a low laugh. " _Ooh_ , I get it. So _that's_ how you've been earning your meals, it is?" Winkle's eyes narrowed in confusion. "I thought you had a little more integrity than that. What, you like that creep more than me?"

What? _Oh_. Well, the accusation wasn't exactly true, but, then again, the truth didn't seem any better. No, I just stuck a deal with Dok to avoid you?–pitiful, and Zorin had figured that out already. I offer a helping and around the lab and he–no, unbelievable now. It was only a demonstration–ew, _awful_. She grimaced, and Zorin gave a dry, humorless snort.

"Whatever. Like I give a shit about your bad taste," Zorin said with a shrug and extended a bleary hand toward her face. Winkle tried to shake off the woman's grip as fingers pressed hard into the hollows of her temples. "It's not like you can forget about me anyway. I won't let you this time."

Zorin's odd, right eye ignited in a swirl of glowing green and the walls behind her started to bleed. Black tendrils of moving shadow spilled from the ceiling and flowed onto the floor, coating the interior of the room in pitch. The flowing black liquid was oddly mesmerizing like it was waving.

Suddenly something began to knot into her hair from behind. What?! Winkle trashed as another and then another fist full of her mane was grabbed. It felt as though someone was standing behind her, but that was impossible. She squinted at the darkness. Without glasses, she could barely make out the shadowy, disembodied hands rising from the darkness around her like morbid flowers. Whipping her head from side to side, she watched as blurry arms began to bud from the door behind her. Fingers latched onto her shoulders like claws, and she squirmed. What was going on!?

Unseen hands ripped her jacket and already torn shirt away. Winkle frantically glanced down, but the clothing was already lost in the moving blackness that covered the floor. Hands grabbed at her from behind, mushing tea-cup breasts and raking welts across her bare torso. Inky black arms looped around her own then, keeping her stuck fast to the door as Zorin let go of her wrists.

The woman backed away, easily wading through the sea of grabbing arms until her silhouette nearly disappeared in the unreal darkness. Only the ghostly green eye and Cheshire smile remained visible. Winkle felt her stomach knot as dark hands started to tear her shoes and pants away. Zorin silently watched.

The groping touch of the shadowy appendages was inescapable. Arms encircled her ankles like shackles to keep uncooperative legs spread before wandering fingers eagerly speared her. She gasped, arching against the door at the invasion. To her embarrassed horror, Zorin laughed. The cruel smile grew as the shadows stretched her. Winkle let out a shuddering sigh, sharp teeth clenching as pleasure began to coil in her stomach again. No! Not fair! This was horrifying.

Moan breaking in her sore throat, Winkle glanced down. Although they were blurry, dark, ethereal hands stood out in stark contrast against her pale flesh. A single hand worked slowly between her legs with helpers on either side holding her open with deft fingers. And more still cupped her breasts, felt down the slight curve of her waist, and groped at trembling thighs. She shivered at the perverse sight. It didn't seem real. But the building, burning pleasure told her that it was.

Stuck against the door like a fly in a spider's web, she was trapped as molesting hands continued long after satisfaction came and went. When she reached the peak of pleasure, no rest was given. No, the sensation was only prolonged. Orgasms strung through her one after the next, making her back arched like a bow and toes curled, but the touches continued. Fingers slipped out only for another pair to take their place. She was so slick after a time the new digits fit with no resistance, and she just moaned lowly as they pressed inside.

In the dimness Zorin remained like a sentinel, glowing eye hungrily scanning her bound and writhing form. Every moan she uttered made a gruff laugh escape the watching woman. How long she remained a show for Zorin, Winkle didn't know.

Exhausted, she completely depended on the shadows to support her. But the hands didn't stop, nor did Zorin move. Sore and slicked in red-tinted sweat, Winkle moaned brokenly as she was forced to orgasm again. Enough. _Enough_ , please. She wanted to scream. No more. When the fingers withdrew, she sighed gratefully, only to whine as another pair replaced them.

In desperation, she tried to think of something, anything to block the raw, near painful pounding. Drawing a breath, Winkle focused and screwed her eyes shut, silently concentrating on a distant memory. Although she wasn't sure if it was real, the fantasy of it felt true enough.

In her mind, lights blazed from above; stage lights and a spotlight just of her. The brightness obscured the waiting audience in shadow, but she knew their eyes were on her, just like Zorin's were now. She shuddered and almost lost focus. Gritting her teeth, Winkle willed herself to think of the stage again. Her alone in a pool of light, the silhouette of the conductor raising his baton, the orchestra starting quick and triumphant. The music swelling gloriously! Her drawing a breath, mouth opening to–

Winkle jolted awake and sat up with a start. Groping blindly in the dark, she felt along the worn floor until fingertips brushed something small and mental. Glasses! Placing the spectacles on her nose the darkness came into focus. She was in her room on the floor by the door.

Blue eyes darted about but saw no one else. Winkle let out a sigh, hand coming to clutch her ripped shirt front as she leaned back against the door. Wait, shirt? Frantic hands felt down her body to find it clothed. Although the shirt and front of her pants were ripped, she was more or less dressed. The clothing hadn't been torn away. Then that meant the shadows hadn't come alive. It had all been a horrible, mind-wrenching illusion.

A shiver raced down her spine. It had felt real. Zorin had been right. She couldn't forget this. The memory of a hundred hands molesting and opening her remained. She shuddered again and groaned but choked painfully. Her throat! It burned! Oh. The crushed throat was real. Of course.

Winkle sighed through her nose, head coming to rest against the door. Damn Zorin, may the devil take her. Tired eyes slid closed.

 _RING! RING! RING!_

Winkle snapped awake instantly. Alert, she watched her pink alarm clock rattle off the coffin side table and fall to the floor. She wearily crawled toward it and shut off the clock with a frown. She hadn't set an alarm, which meant Zorin must have done so. The smiling pink clock read 00:00. Midnight. Time to go back down to the laboratory. The hellish illusion had lasted the entire day and most of the evening. No time to rest. Gritting her teeth, Wrinkle let her forehead hit the abysmally cheerful clock face.

* * *

Notes:

1\. Literal Mind Fuck. Awful even it's it not physical as psychology torture is still torture. Pretty sure this is the worst, my Lady informs me that the shadow rape scene is very similar to an Alucard/Rip doujin that already exists. Welp. You know what to Google now. Fly, fly, fly. Fly, fly, fly. And Zorin's gotta have a bad, puny line every chapter she's in.

3\. I buzzed through Zorin's scenes after writing this and remembered her powers are more about making victims relive horrific memories. What she did in the fic is more Alucard-esque, what with all the disembodied hands, dripping and crap. So…eh. You get the point. Whatever. Zorin is a master of illusions? She made a giant clone of herself. Why not shadow hands? Also, I kinda made Winkle not have any concrete memories to fuck with. Ehhh. Fuck it.

But yeah, this is awful. Don't mind rape. Not cool.


	7. Chapter 7

Winkle kicked the door open and trudged into the clinic. She was dressed in a poorly pressed suit and a pink dress shirt with the collar popped high.

"You're late," Dok's voice clipped from beyond the opened laboratory door. No doubt the entrance had been propped to hear for her arrival.

She said nothing, just rolled tired eyes and headed to the cold storage room. After carelessly placing jar after jar onto the waiting cart she wheeled it out and presented the specimens to the Doktor. As per usual, he didn't acknowledge her and continued to tinker with an incubation lamp using a screwdriver. She remained silent too. Swaying on her feet, Winkle leaned against the cart as heavy eyelids closed.

The rhythmic clink of metal tightening stopped. An irritated grunt made her blue eyes crack open. The Doktor had stopped working and now held a jar in his hand. Tilting the container back and forth, he watched the tumor floating within bobbed in the vile liquid, lips curling. With a harsh sigh, he slammed the specimen back onto the cart making her jump to attention.

"You've brought me these before! All of them!" he spat, gesturing to the jars with a sharp wave. "First, you're tardy and now incompetent-what is the matter with you?"

"No-othing." Winkle lied voice breaking. Unfortunately, Zorin's boot print across her throat wasn't an illusion.

His head tilted at her raspy words.

"What happened to your voice?" Dok asked.

The damage wasn't easy to hide and playing mute wouldn't have worked from the start, so she was truthful.

"Zorin happened. Obviously."

A mad grin of excitement sliced his face as latex hands darted for her collar.

"Let me see!" he demanded. She brushed the touch away, and after gathering the fabric closed stuck her tongue out. He snarled back at the disrespect. Reaching a hand into the pocket of his lab coat, Dok threatened, "You will show me freely or else. You are evidence, Obersturmführer."

Winkle glared bitterly at him, and reflective lenses stared back unfazed. Despite all that had happened between them, he was still her superior and maker. She had to obey. Shoulders slumping with a sigh she let go of the collar. Dok rose to his feet, peeled back the fabric, and stepped away after a quick glimpse.

"Go to the clinic and disrobe."

"W-what?" she rasped.

"Do not keep me waiting," he ordered and walked off to rummage through his effects.

Winkle solemnly headed to the clinic. After pulling out a clean paper gown from beneath one of the clean gurneys, she changed then lowered herself onto the same metal bed. The surface was hard and uncomfortable but her exhausted eyes closed.

Feather-light touches carded through her hair. Winkle jolted awake and lurched upright with a scream that echoed as she frantically looked around. The dimly lit clinic and the Doktor's shocked face greeted her. No shadows, no hands, no ghostly-green eye. Wordlessly, she sank back down on the gurney with a sigh of relief.

Dok nothing about the outburst. Instead, he removed a notepad from his pocket and began to jot down notes. And like that, the session began. The man was meticulous, and this examination proved no different. As the bodies of Zorin's affairs before her, the Doktor cataloged the damage the woman's affections caused. Each request was direct.

"Move your head to the right," he ordered. She complied and turned away from him. He placed a small L-shaped ruler on her temple exactly where Zorin had pressed her fingers before conjuring the awful visions. Winkle frowned and sighed through her nose as a flash went off. He removed the ruler. "To the left." She turned her head again. Another flash. "Good, pull your hair to the side."

She did, and he laid a length of measuring tape across her neck. Another flash. A new order. The examination continued. Her tired eyes began to close. The light from the camera made her eyelids flutter until she grew accustomed to the brightness of the bulb and sound of the shutter. Orders turned to murmurs as her head lolled sleepily against the gurney. A finger tipped her chin back and to the side. Winkle jolted awake to find the Doktor leaning over her.

"Don't move," he said and pressed a flat ruler near the bites along her throat.

She stilled, and the camera went off again. Winkle blinked once, twice. The room faded into comforting darkness as her eyelids drooped. She flinched awake when unseen fingers took her hand and began to scrape underneath her fingernails with a metal instrument. A tongue clicked unhappily from above.

"Collecting samples, be still."

This wasn't an illusion. Body going lax she let latex hands move her as the dim room slipped away.

* * *

Winkle rolled over with a groan, eyes fluttering open as the sound of crinkling came from above. The world was black as pitch. She reached a hand forward and felt the plastic sheet draped over her billow and rise. Pushing the dark cover away from her face, the blurry ceiling of the clinic came into view. She must have fallen asleep.

Groping around the metal bed searching hands found glasses laying beside her. Putting the lenses on, the gloomy room came into focus and so did the metal bowl at the end of the gurney near her feet. Brow knitting, she sat up further and pulled the dish toward her to find two blood packs resting on ice within.

A sheet to simulate darkness, the removed glasses, and the blood, the Doktor must have done this after she'd fallen asleep during the examination. A frown tugged at her lips. Before any of this had ever happened, Zorin's game and making deals to avoid it, she probably would have considered these an act of kindness. Now, it felt like payment. She wasn't sure which it was. Her stomach grumbled and frown deepened as she picked up one of the cold packets. Zorin had thrown her the previous meal at the wall last night in the hallway.

With a sigh, Winkle bit into the corner and sucked glumly. The liquid soothed her raspy throat though and soon she drank deeply. Tossing the empty bag into the bowl, she grabbed the other one. Suddenly the laboratory door began to squeak open. Snatching the pack in her mouth like a dog, she yanked the black sheet back over her head and laid down. Soft-soled shoes walked across the room making a beeline for the gurney. Damnit. Footsteps stopped by the bedside.

"I know you're awake," Dok deadpanned.

The sheet was whisked away, and Winkle jumped as it fluttered to the floor. She glanced up to find lenses staring down. Dok scoffed and shook his head. In the reflection of strange spectacles, Winkle saw how silly she appeared. Her wide eyes stared in alarm behind crooked glasses and tangles of black hair as the punctured pack oozed red down the corners of her mouth.

"Feeling better?" He asked, not sounding sincere. Propping herself on and elbow, Winkle spat the pack out, placed it in the bowl, and wiped her mouth before giving a shrug. "Then we'll continue," he prompted, removing a pad and pen from his pocket. She scowled at the forwardness. Noticing the expression, the Doktor clicked his tongue. "No sulking. Tell me what happened."

She snorted then snapped, "What's there to say? Zorin upped the ante; she caught me just like she promised…"

"Ah, ah," he corrected, pen tapping against the pad. "Details."

"Like this doesn't tell you enough." She spat gesturing to her face and throat as wild eyes glared with sudden fury, but the Doktor remained impassive, hand poised to write. A single eyebrow arched again at her rudeness but nothing more. Above all, she was evidence. The words stung considerably now that she was awake enough to register them. The exam wasn't going to stop until Dok considered it over. Sighing explosively, Winkle fitfully lay back down on her side and admitted, "She attacked me in my room. First, she pinned me by the throat then the wrists before degrading me. Happy?"

"Degraded how? By forcibly feeding from you?" He questioned, ignoring her mood.

"Yes…" she ground out. "And...touching me at the same time."

"Where?" He asked. Winkle hesitated, mouth twisting as humiliation and resentment churned her stomach in equal measure. When words wouldn't come, she rested a hand between her legs instead. "I see. Did she advance on you before or after she crushed your throat?"

"After," she murmured.

"Ah, probably so you couldn't scream," Dok surmised, quickly writing notes. She shrugged not knowing if Zorin had considered that. Maybe the woman just enjoyed ruining things she found pleasure in, like music, records, and singing for example. "And then?"

"She tasted…" she swallowed thickly and motioned again, "but it seemed to piss her off."

"Interesting. Did she give any indication why?"

"I tasted like latex apparently," she admitted and gave a shudder as the phantom feeling of groping hands resurfaced. "And then it got worse."

Pen pausing, he asked, "How, exactly?"

"Well, she…" Winkle swallowed again and ground her teeth before finding the words. "Zorin knows we...that you and I, well, that we were intimate enough." Blue eyes searched the Doktor's expressionless face until his head inclined once, then she continued. "And that's when her mood changed. She...she got jealous, I think. Mocked me, you, then said she wouldn't let me forget about her, and that's when..." And she paused to mime how the other had gripped her face.

"I couldn't see well, she'd knocked my glasses off from the start, but the room began to bleed." She shuddered, remembering how dark shadows had spilled from the ceiling and flowed like ink across the floor. "I didn't understand what was going on at first, but the way they oozed…" she breathed and curled in on herself. "God, there were so many of them. All those hands." Her fingers fisted long hair in horror. "I couldn't stop them, and she just watched and laughed."

Winkle remained coiled in a ball until droplets struck the gurney. Glancing toward the soft sound, she found red beads of blood lying on the metal bed. Fresh tears. Startled by the sight, she sniffed loudly and furiously wiped at her eyes. Straightening blood-tinged glasses, she spared the Doktor a look. The man wasn't writing like expected. Instead, the pad and pen were held at his side forgotten as a crooked smile hitched his thin lips.

"You...don't seem surprised," she said with growing suspicion.

"No, not terribly," he conceded.

Winkle frowned. Considering the man never seemed to help without compensation in return, it was likely that what had happened between them had more strings attached than she'd first believed.

"...You lied to me yesterday, didn't you?" she accused.

"No. What gives you that impression?" he asked.

"First, you said Zorin likes me when it seems she only wants to crush me underfoot. And then that demonstration. What on earth was that if not for your satisfaction?"

"I didn't lie to you," he defended flatly.

"Prove it."

"As your superior, I don't have to do anyth-"

"-Then you DID lie!"

"Watch. Your. Tone. Obersturmführer," He clipped deliberately. "Yes, yes, Blitz is a sadist-so what? You're right in that regard, but that doesn't make my words false. In her way, Winkle, she does like you."

"As a child does a toy you mean," she scoffed.

Glasses slid down his nose, and yellow eyes looked at her knowingly as he added,"And she isn't fond of sharing."

Winkle frowned at the words and hugged long, thin legs to her chest. Face pressed against her knees, she considered the sick, sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.

"...That fat folder you've collected is why none of this is a surprise to you," she breathed then lifted her head. "That demonstration...was a test, wasn't it?"

"The opportunity presented itself, and I couldn't pass it up," he answered. "You are my assistant. I can use you as I see fit."

"Then...what happened was for your amusement?"

"Amusement? Ach-don't be insulting. This is for research! You two have inadvertently set up plenty of fodder for testing the behaviors associated with vampiric copulation; it would be a waste if left unused. Admittedly, the results have been fascinating, though not unanticipated."

"You-you said you would help me! That's why we made a deal to begin with, to help each other, but, but-you set me up! You knew she'd be jealous! You just wanted to see how it would play out!" she seethed, sitting up suddenly from the gurney with bared teeth at the realization.

"Calm down and consider this rationally. You can take these events as evidence that Blitz truly does like you in some twisted manner, or views you as a possession. At the very least, she doesn't take kindly to another touching her plaything," he offered coldly.

"That doesn't help at all!" She cried, hands balling into white-knuckle fists. "You're absolutely awful! I shouldn't have trusted you!"

"Yes, you should learn not to make deals without considering the details. It will certainly be the death of you," he agreed.

The reply was breathtakingly apathetic. Taken aback, Winkle gasped. Her chest panged, and she fisted the paper gown over her still heart.

"I...I..." she floundered for words before her teeth clenched together. Brow knitting, she glared at his calm face and said, "I quit."

He let out a dismissive snort of laughter.

"Don't be dramatic. It's impossible to quit Millennium. You know that."

"No," she corrected, pointing a sharp finger at him. "Our deal is over. I quit, I refuse to be your assistant."

His face pinched in annoyance.

"And what, starve? Besides, the Major order-"

"-he ordered me to help you, and I've done that. He even thanked me personally for it! Everyone knows working with you is hell. I know I'm not first to beg to be transferred out of this hack shop. And I'll do anything, anything to get a reassignment." She spat, hopping off the gurney and yanking out her clothes from beneath the metal bed in a huff. "Starvation would be better than staying in this disgusting place another second! Your advice was terrible! You just wanted me to play along for your stupid, perverse research! I was better off facing her alone. You're the worst doctor; you don't fix anything!"

The Doktor watched in open-mouthed disbelief as she turned and stomped toward the door.

"Stop! I order y-"

"-or what, you'll blow me up?" She challenged, sparing him an over the shoulder glare. Face red with rage, Dok held the denotation remote in his hand finger poised to kill. "Go ahead. It would be a kindness!"

His jaw clenched, and air hissed through bared teeth. She stopped, eyebrow arching to challenge the stalling. When he didn't press the button, she looked away and with chin held high stormed out of the clinic. Once beyond the door, a rattling crash sounded behind her, but Winkle refused to turn back.

* * *

Notes:

• Winkle's finally pushed to the breaking point. And yeah, Dok's a super massive asshole. Winkle seems really loyal to Millennium in canon though, so I'm not sure if she could really be pushed into disobeying the Major's orders. I mean, it's not that hard to figure out that she's being sent on a suicide mission and still happily goes and claims the Alder. Idk. For the sake of drama in this fic she disobeys. Fuck it. Why the fuck are you reading this smut? HUH?! Pssh, man, I like, don't even know any more.

• And yea, this chapter can be triggering if you've ever filled out a collection kit. Once again, this fic deals with difficult issues super, SUPER poorly.

• Drama bullshit drama. If you joined Millennium.

• Ah shit, it's January. That means it's been a year since I started writing this fic and it needs to fuck'n end soon. Spent most of last night editing this chapter, it kept changing. I have pieces of all the other chapters written, I just need to write more and string the bits together, it's just...ugh.

(btw, Dok flipped a gurney and I'm about to jfc.)


	8. Chapter 8

Determined to avoid both Zorin and the laboratory, Winkle headed to drills, as usual, the following evening. The men greeted her with silent glances and stiff salutes. She hadn't led them yesterday, too busy dealing with Zorin's awful illusion. Still, they followed her directions to the letter.

When midnight neared, she dropped the troops off at the dining hall and stayed far away from the entrance, not able to stomach the sight of Zorin yet. Besides, she had another goal: get an audience with The Major. If leaving the lab was going to be a reality, she needed another way to feed.

It was possible she could get transferred to the mess crew. Although the task of fetching meals was beneath her regarding difficulty, the troops often clamored over the job because it allowed them to leave the ship regularly. She jogged down the hallway towards the Major's quarters but slowed when she saw the two soldiers stations outside the opulent white double doors.

"Papers," one of the soldiers ordered, holding out his hand expectantly.

"Aww, so serious," Winkle teased, poking him in the cheek instead. The vampire's eye ticked. "I just want to say hi, I need The Major's opinion."

"Not without papers," the second deadpanned. "Fill out the proper request, and you'll be — "

"Come'on~, just this once?" She pushed with a pout. Without missing a beat, both guards shoot her a flat look. For years, she'd shown up at The Major's quarters unannounced, playfully demanding new records to be purchased in bursts of operatic joy. But it seemed the guards were fed up with her pestering. Sometimes, The Major heard her through the door and allowed an unscheduled audience. It was worth a try. "Fine, then I'll just have to ask you two~! Which song should I play during training tomorrow? I was thinking — " she took a deep breath and the guards grimaced in unison " — _Viktoria! Viktoria! Der Meister soll leben, Der wacker dem Sternlein den Rest hat gegeben_ ~!"

She sang with abandon until the intercom crackled. With a gasp, she stopped and glanced up toward the sound.

"Obersturmführer van Winkle," The Major's voice began, and she drew an excited breath. Finally, things were going to work in her favor. "Report to your scheduled assignment. That'll be all."

Heartbroken, her mouth slacked in disappointment. There was a snort beside her. Winkle glared daggers at the laughing guard, but he offered only indifference in return. The Major's order was absolute. She had to obey.

Teeth clenched, Winkle drew herself to her full height and left. The show lasted until she turned the corner and deflated with a slump. A request had to be submitted to see him now, and it was hard to know when The Major would respond. If it weren't soon, she'd start to be underfed again. Deciding to start the dreaded paperwork, Winkle began to head for her room. Bumping into a hard, green-clad wall, she back peddled and found Günsche blocking the hallway. Dead icy eyes stared down.

"Yes?" Winkle asked. The Captain offered no reply. "…Were you sent for me?"

Ever the good dog, it wasn't uncommon for Günsche to track down those The Major wanted to see. Perhaps the Führer wanted to speak with her after all?

She grew antsy when Günsche continued staring like a corpse. Finally, his lips pursed ever so slightly, and he pointed at her chest. Shaking his head back and forth once, he motioned downward before drawing a cross in the air. The gist was easy enough to catch: _you are not supposed to be here_. Oh no, had he been sent to escort her?

She shrugged and said, "I'm back on regular duty."

Head cocking to the side, he gestured downward a second time.

"I'm not needed in the lab anymore," she tried again and sighed forcefully. "Come on, Hans. When have I ever lied to you?"

Cold, dead eyes narrowed a fraction. Winkle swallowed. Without further warning, The Captain lunged forward. He didn't belie– _SHIT_!

Winkle gave a start and tried to leap away, but he was too fast. Günsche snared her around the middle with a muscled arm. Although she clawed at him, raking finger-length tears across his uniform front, he threw her over his shoulder in a single motion like a sack of potatoes. Stiff as a statue, he turned and headed toward the stairwell that led to the lower level.

She fought back, but kicks to the stomach were met with soft grunts, nothing more. No matter how hard she pounded on his back in hollow rhythm, he wouldn't put her down. Letting out a cry of desperation, she fisted the fabric of his coat.

"Do not make me go down there! I can't _stand it_!" She moaned, tears filling her eyes. He did not stop walking down the hall. She twisted her body to look at him and tried again in a softer voice. "Dok is _impossible_. I can't work for him anymore, _please don't make me_!" Günsche kept going, but his shaggy white head turned a little. One dull blue eye looked back at her. That was her cue. Winkle blinked, forcing a single bloody tear to roll down a freckled cheek. " _Please_ , Hans," she murmured.

A small sigh emitted from him. Günsche stopped, pivoted on his heel, and resumed walking in the opposite direction of the medical facility. Winkle turned her head back around as a devious smile cut her face. The act had worked! In silence, The Captain carried her down Deck B and appeared to be heading for the Command Room. Thankfully, it was feeding time; no one saw them pass by in such an embarrassing fashion.

With a foot, he nudged the door open and walked into the cavernous, dim Command Room. Save for the two of them not a soul was inside. Once beyond the entrance, he dipped his shoulder and let her slip to the ground. Her eyes darted toward the closing door and watched the waning sliver of light from the hallway. Winkle paused, thought better of escaping, and then trailed after Günsche as he continued toward The Major's command chair in the center of the room. The dark screens distorted their images like in a hall of mirrors as they passed, their reflections looked bulbous and inhuman.

Günsche neared the chair and pressed one of the many buttons on the arm. A slit-like compartment opened along the metal back of the chair, and he removed a whiteboard and marker from within. Her eyebrows rose in shock. She knew Günsche often had meetings with The Major. So writing was how he communicated at length? She hadn't known that. Removing the marker cap with his teeth, he began to write in squeaky strokes, then turned the board around for her to see.

" _Disobedience = dishonor_ ," read the board. Her lips pursed at the bold black words. Eyes sinking to the floor briefly, she opened her mouth to offer a defense, but Günsche raised a finger to quiet her. Quickly, he erased the words with his sleeve before writing again. " _Unlike you_."

"I know," Winkle muttered, unable to look him. Being confronted with words rather than physically forced to go to the medical facility made her feel terribly guilty.

Flip. Erase. Scribble. Flip.

" _Your assignment = no change_ ," read the board. It wasn't a question. Blue eyes rolled, but she still nodded and acknowledged the earlier lie. He nodded once and erased the words before adding. " _Report for duty_."

"But Dok's the worst!" Winkle fumed. "I thought he was helping me when he was just using me!"

Flip. Erase. Scribble. Flip.

" _Help with?_ "

"Nothing, never mind," she said quickly. He underlined the question with a squeak and pointed to it. Dead eyes stared unnervingly. Winkle moaned and clawed at her face in exasperation, but he only motioned to the question again. With a huff, she stomped her foot and caved. "Okay! But don't tell anyone." Nothing if not sincere, he nodded solemnly in reply. Winkle decided to trust him. "Zorin and I got into an argument; she won't let me in the mess hall now. So, I made a deal with Dok for blood packs. I thought it was working in my favor, but he just made things worse between Zorin and me for…well, for the sake of science, I guess."

Günsche's gaze remained steady and dull. Winkle wasn't sure he'd heard her until he gave another slight nod. After a pause, he wrote another message and turned the board around.

" _A deal is a deal_."

Her stomach dropped at the words.

"Hans, please," she tried.

" _A deal is a deal_ ," he underlined in response.

She bit her lip and shook her head. At the defiance, his brow lowered. Capping the marker with his teeth, Günsche let both it and the board drop back into the compartment with a clang. No more words. He strode toward her with measured steps. Shit. She should have lied.

"Wait!" she pleaded, backing away. "I'll go, I promise!"

He shook his head back and forth in reply.

"I swear! Cross my heart!" She begged, making an X on her chest before pressing hands together in a plea. "Give me 10 minutes! If I don't leave this room by then, you can escort me there, okay? I just…"

With a wince, she cowered and stopped speaking as his long shadow fell over her. Oh no. The words hadn't been enough. He was going to drag she down there. How humiliating.

When the footsteps stopped, she anxiously glanced up with watery eyes to find Günsche glaring down. Jaw tense, he flashed five fingers in her face before tapping his wrist as through a watch face were there. Jabbing her in the chest, the same finger then slowly rose to her eye level. The mimed message was clear: _you've got 10 minutes to get yourself together, or else_. Winkle nodded. Giving a snort, Günsche brushed past and left the Command Room. The door closed with an echoing clang.

Winkle let out a grateful sigh. Tears worked but only for so long. Günsche was stern and would not go back on his word or a direct order, ever. Not only were there less than ten minutes to figure out a way to escape the Command Room unnoticed, she now had to avoid both Günsche and Zorin and still get an audience with The Major, an almost impossible task. Panic knotted in her chest. _No_. Focus. First, she had to find a way to get out of this room without The Captain seeing.

Figuring she was already in trouble, Winkle quickly felt along the metal arms of the command chair and pressed the largest button. Several monitors fizzled to life in the center of the matrix of black screens on the wall, displaying one video feed. A gray, pixelated view of an empty hallway came into focus: Deck B. The rest of the troops must still be feeding. Good, she could make her way down the hall without witness.

She flipped through the video feeds and shots of the zeppelin interior clipped across the monitor. When the Command Room doors came into view, she paused. The entrance appeared empty. Eyes growing wide, she quickly fumbled for the camera controls. _No way_! The front door was unguarded? She tilted the camera angle down. Had Günsche really—big, dull eyes filled the bottom of the screen. Winkle yelped at the suddenness and quickly clicked to the next channel. No, still there.

Cursing under her breath, she flipped through the video feeds until The Major's still guarded door came into view. Cringing as her predicament remained the same, she resumed clicking through the channels. The many blood-slicked long tables that filled the mess hall flashed across the screen. Winkle backtracked to watch the feeding soldiers, stomach growling. Eyes narrowing, she searched their faces. Zorin wasn't among them. _Goddamn it_! The one time she could've entered the mess hall without incident.

Cheeks puffing out at the unfairness, Winkle resumed rapidly searching. Images of the hallway clipped by showing the interior the engine room first, then long rooms filled with rows of bunk beds. Wait. She slowed down and flicked through the live feeds of the vacant bedrooms: the soldiers' private quarters. Why would anyone ever need to see this? Suddenly, a streak of red hair flashed across the screen. Winkle paused. Immediately forgetting her last train of thought, she backtracked to the last feed.

The strong woman had indeed skipped the midnight meal; the monitor showed Zorin working at the desk in her private quarters. The room seemed to be the same size and layout as her's, which made sense given their shared rank. A coffin laid on the floor to the left and a desk stood against to the wall to the right. Zorin's room was incredibly spartan: there were no collections of dried bouquets, bags of gunpowder, old playbills, stacks of records or anything fun.

In fact, the strong woman only kept a few personal items. The giant, black and white scythe leaned against the wall in the right-hand corner. A few sepia pictures of nude women were tacked above her desk. Lastly, a shelf hung on the wall above the head of her coffin holding only three items: a snuffed black candle, a bowl of what looked like dried blood, and the stone statue of a woman. Winke couldn't help but stare at the stone idol. The figure was nude, and her body divided down the middle: the right was whole and beautiful, but the left was skeletal with scraps of flesh dangling from protruding bones.

The idol was certainly strange, and the symbols etched into on the wall behind the statue only made it more foreboding. Scratched into the metal plating behind the statue were lines of illegible text. Three bold symbols dominated the bottom line. Winkle squinted at the strange inscription, trying to understand it:

 _Deyr fé,_

deyja _frændr,_

 _deyr sjálfr et_ sama _;_

ek _veit einn,_

 _at aldri deyr:_

 _dómr um dauðan hvern_

The script meant nothing to her, but the symbols, especially the last two, looked familiar: one was the swastika, and the other looked like half of the Schutzstaffel, emblems used proudly by the Nazi Party. Now that she considered it, the symbols also sort of resembled the intricate runic tattoos covering half of Zorin's body. Weird. She didn't know what to make of it.

Winkle's gaze returned to the strong woman. The other seemed to be constructing something on the desk, but the way broad, muscled shoulders hunched over the table in concentration made it difficult to see what occupied Zorin. Winkle knew the woman was handy, and often helped to upkeep the armored cars, Panzers, and BMW R75s housed the Zeppelin's underbelly. Doing such greasy work in her personal quarters seemed strange, though.

Winkle squinted at the screen, but couldn't understand what the other was fixing so seriously. Zorin only moved to reach into the metal box beside her to change tools. Growing bored and running out of time, Winkle searched through the video feeds again. The inside of medical ward came into view. Her brown knitted at the sight. Just how many cameras were placed on the ship?

The medical ward looked like a war-zone, even though it had only been a day since she'd quit. Papers lay discarded on the tiled floor. A gurney, the one she'd been examined on, had been flipped over and forgotten in the center of the room. She clicked to the next fed. A birdseye view of the stained dividers sectioning off the laboratory showed on the monitor. The camera angle permitted a slanted glimpse inside of each cubicle. In the furthest room stood the Doktor.

"Shut UP!" he angrily mouthed to a large glass case in the corner. The container was taller than him and seemed to be filled to the brim with a noxious yellow liquid: the same yellow, molasses-like ooze that preserved all the other specimen. Suspended in the case was a figure, but the camera angle only allowed a peek of what looked like the back of a bony head. She had never seen inside this cubicle in the lab and didn't understand with whom he was speaking. Winkle turned up the volume.

"Stop looking at me like that!" He hissed, jabbing a finger at the glass. " _Trust_?! Bah–she's a little viper! There are no doll-eyed innocents here. She's a soldier first and foremost. I–" he paused suddenly, as though someone had interrupted. Winkle heard nothing through the speakers. The thing inside the glass case didn't move. He sputtered in anger. "Guilty? That's preposterous! This is bigger than mere feelings. If she truly thought that, then she's a fool. Trust is a tool! There are always strings attached." He paused again. There was no audible response, but Dok's teeth clenched and his face colored red with rage. " _Exactly_ –look where it landed you!"

After snarling at the encased specimen, he bent over to grabbed a piece of cloth from the floor and threw it over the glass. Then, strange, unforgiving hands fisted his long blonde hair as Dok curled in on himself. The weight of his misery crushed him until he resembled a sulking hunchback. After bringing a hand to his mouth, teeth bit into a gloved finger.

Winkle frowned. Before she knew what to think of his actions, the door to the Command Room burst open. Time was up. Quickly, she clicked off the monitor and turned around. Dead eyes locked onto her face as Günsche strode toward her. Winkle gulped and held her hands up in surrender.

"I'll go. I swear."

Günsche's neared her, face impassive as his hand darted out and grabbed her by the shoulder before Winkle could blink. Strong, thick fingers dug into the hollow of her collarbone, intent on dragging her. He didn't believe her. Despite the pain, she clutched his hand. Making no attempt to pry his grip off, Winkle held onto The Captain's hand as though he were giving her friendly pat.

"Hans, thank you for talking to me and giving me time," she said as sincerely as possible. "I promise I'll go. You can even escort me the proper way! Just…" and she gave his wrist a tug.

His brow gathered, apparently not anticipating acceptance. After a long pause, talon-like fingers released their death grip on her shoulder. Beaming a smile in thanks, she immediately looped an arm around his own and gave it a squeeze.

"Much better, don't you think?" Winkle asked cheerfully.

Brown still creased, his dead eyes stared down at her. He raised a hand, and she offered her palm after a beat. His finger traced the number 180° on the flat of her hand before tapping her once on the forehead. Wha–oh, ha! She snickered and lightly hit his shoulder. And some of the soldiers swore Günsche didn't have a sense of humor at all.

"Pfft, come on," she teased and tugged on his arm.

He shook his head but began to walk with her. Together, they headed down to the infirmary, Winkle chattering excitedly all the while as she hung onto him. Given what the monitor had shown, returning to the lab might not be such an awful plan; she could make things work in her favor.

* * *

Notes:

To me, Günsche is 100% mute and has figured out some ways to communicate with the others. He is also kinda nice in his super serious, dead-eyed, silent-as-the-grave way.

Major's more willing to talk to his subordinates, Winkle is given a hard time because (that's the theme of the fic) she kept bust'n in and pestering him to use their piles of Nazi gold budget to buy Der Freischütz memorabilia, opera recordings, and other shit. Even the guards are done.

Dok talks to, you probably guess it, Mina! What, you don't talk to your skeletons for comfort? Sometimes, it's easier to rant to an inanimate object than deal with how shitty of a person you are.

About the whole 'trust' thing Dok yells at Mina. Presumably (read: headcanon), she trusted Jonathan and van Helsing with her life to help them defeat Dracula. When Dracula's curse isn't reversed (because he doesn't die) Mina remains in a fledgling vampire state: pale and moody with a wafer-mark on her forehead. Jonathan and van Helsing failed to save her. Blah blah blah. It's hard to fit into Victorian society when you look like death and thirst for blood. She's a monster and that shit's suspicious. Mina is bound and sealed away (probably by Helsing) and Millennium digs up her remains before WW2 when Nazi occultists were looking for holy hocus-pocus artifacts and locations (like the spear of destiny, or whatever conspiracy flavor of the month y'all like). And here is where I'd source more of that information –finish DAWN, Hirano!

Zorin has a shrine to the goddess Hel in her room. Initially, I considered Freyja (because she's a boss bitch and there's no argument over her goddess status) but I think Hel, daughter of Loki and ruler of Niflheim works better for Zorin. I like her odd lineage and Hel's dominion over the dead (the old and sick tho, not warriors) loosely matches Zorin's whole "I'm the grim reaper, now scream" vibe. Also, Hel's either described as an ooger/troll-woman or as half flesh and half black (decaying), kind of like how Zorin is half tatted and half clean. Some argue that no true pagan would pray to a half Jötunn whelp, so idk. Not pagan. I went with the goddess/deity/giantess I thought matched Zorin's personality and traits the closest.

The runes on Zorin's wall (and her tattoos) are Armanen runes (and I used this site for the meanings) because the Nazis were super into that shit. Here's look'n at you Himmler. Clearly Zorin's into some runic magic, just like the actual Nazis. Once again, not pagan and everything I've read about Armanen runes just makes my skin crawl (because it's so steeped in 19th-century occultism and white supremacy), so I've probably used them 'wrong', but I don't really care.

The poem on Zorin's wall is from the last stanza in the Gestaþáttr section of the Hávamál from the Poetic Edda. It seems right up her alley. Translated, the Icelandic means:

Cattle die,  
kinsmen die  
you yourself die;  
I know one thing  
which never dies:  
the judgment of a dead man's life

On tumblr and A03 the inscription has symbols at the bottom but ff is weird and doesn't allow links or images. Sorry.


	9. Chapter 9

Once at the infirmary door, Winkle gave Günsche's arm another squeeze before letting go.

"Thank you," she said with a smile.

Reaching up, she ruffled the white hair peeking from beneath his cap affectionately, like a pet. Dull eyes fixed her with a bored glance, and his shaggy head shook once to brush her away. Tired of her theatrics Günsche turned and left. Winkle waved pleasantly after him.

Taking a deep breath, she squared her shoulders and faced the door to the medical facilities. Time to focus. Winkle pulled the handle and tiptoed inside. The infirmary looked just at it had on the monitor: a mess. She snuck across the room toward the laboratory door and carefully opened it. When there was enough space, she stuck her head past the frame to look inside the lab. To the left, a familiar blood-stained figure sat at the desk, typing furiously on the keyboard of the computer terminal.

Edging past the door, Winkle darted by behind him. Cursing, the Doktor slammed a fist against the keys before rapidly hitting the backspace. She jumped but kept going. The stained dividers fluttered as she dashed further into the room like a tall shadow and out of sight. The typing resumed at a manic pace. Good. The Doktor hadn't noticed her presence, yet.

She past the rows of cubicles and slipped into the last one. In the corner of the room stood a tall glass box with a moth-eaten sheet draped over it, just as it had been on the monitor moments before. With a curious hum, she pulled the fabric away and bit back a yelp as it fell to the floor.

Face to face with a bound, gooey skeleton hanging in all its rotting glory behind the glass, Winkle froze. Suspended in a predatory pose by straps, the decaying body angled forward in the amber liquid, putrid face pressed against the container. With its fleshless jaw wide in a silent scream, the creature seemed ready to lunge through the case at her. Winkle stared at the fanged skeleton in shock, then toward the cubical exit, and back. What on Earth was this creature?

It was clearly a specimen, but none of the other's in the Cold Storage room had been so large or strangely preserved as this one; it must be unique. The bindings that wound around the bones and joints connected to links of chain that fed to a crank system at the top of the transparent lid. If one were to turn the rusty handle on the side, the specimen would have been raised to the top of the tall tank. So, this body need to be regularly removed? Weird.

Swallowing thickly, Winkel neared the container and placed a hand on the front panel. The brass plaque on the front of the box read ' No. Anfang — THE SHI'. The title signified the beginning of...something. Brow knitting, Winkle eyed the metal plate nailed into the side of the skeleton's forehead that had 'MINA — No. 0000001' carved into it. She blinked and took a step back. Mina. The name sounded familiar, very familiar.

Screwing her eyes shut, Winkle wracked her brain for an answer. Mina. Mina. Mina...something with an H. Herman? No. Harker? No...wait, yes! That was right!

Years ago, Winkle vaguely remembered paging through the novel _Dracula_ after one of Major's off-handed comments. Since she was so fascinated and fearful of Samiel in Der Freischutz, he'd absently suggested she read about another devil, a bloodthirsty one like herself. The Major even allowed her to borrow the book from his personal library—what an honor!

She'd attempted but sadly never managed to read the novel completely. Aside from being imposing, mysterious figures, there were few similarities between Samiel and Count Dracula, or so she thought. But the Major was right; the Count seemed to be like her, what with his sharp teeth, pointed ears, and aversion to sunlight. Still, the hairy backs of the Count's hands, bushy eyebrows, and lack of reflection were gross and strange qualities.

Ultimately, the ravings of a demented Irish author weren't that enthralling. And those long-winded letters and journal entries noting all native inhabitants of Romania to painstakingly copied train schedules were so tearfully boring! Nothing like the music that seemed to speak to her soul. So, she'd put the book down and never finished it.

Though it pained Winkle, she'd lied to the Major about completing the novel when returning it. He'd smiled and asked one question: what did you think of the Count's demise? Excitedly, she'd lied that it had been spectacular, the best ending ever, and she'd loved how bloody the act had been. Winkle had even claimed that it had practically taken an entire army to bring the dreaded Count down!

At her words, the grin slicing the Major's face had widened, eyes crinkling at corners in amusement. He'd said she had answered just as expected and pleasantly dismissed her with a wave. Now, staring at the sharp teeth of the decomposing body just centimeters behind glass, Winkle wondered if she should have tried harder to finish the book.

This woman, Mina, had been Jonathan Harker's fiance in the book. Winkle remembered reading their journal entries and letters back and forth until she couldn't stomach it further. But if Mina had taken Jonathan's last name, that must mean, as far as the novel went, that Mr. Harker must have survived his trip to Transylvania, and the two of them had wed. But what did finding Mrs. Harker dead and encased like all the other specimen housed here mean?

The beginning. The source. Dracula. Mina Harker. Winkle frowned as the thoughts ran over in her mind. Was the name a coincidence? Winkle didn't know and wasn't certain if she was supposed to see these remains. The knowledge began to nag at her until she forced the strange ideas away. This creature had value if the state of the body, the Doktor's behavior, and the Major's earlier hints indicated anything. The fact that the body was important to superiors mattered, not why.

Besides, it was too late to go back now! Hopefully, this precious bag of bones would help her get a steady supply of blood beyond Zorin's grasp again. Since this was the best plan she could come up with, so be it. Without further ado, Winkle drew a deep breath and let out an explosive laugh.

" _OH_ , be serious!" She snorted. Cackling, Winkle clutched her stomach and clapped a hand against the glass case for support. "No, no that can't possibly be true!" Over her echoing laughter, Winkle could hear metal chair wheels screech in the distance followed by the quick slap of shoes against the floor. "Please, _please_ it's too funny!"

The curtain behind her whisked aside so quickly it half ripped free from the metal rings holding it to the rod. Winkle offered a fanged smile as she turned her head to see the Doktor. Quaking with rage, he threw the balled up sheet to the floor.

" _Get out_!" he ordered, control lost.

Winkle didn't bat an eye, having anticipated his temper already. Time to play her hand.

"But Doktor, we were having a chat~. Mrs. Harker here says you have a heavy conscious, but haha _guilty_? How _preposterous_ , right?" she asked cheerfully.

At the words, his head cocked sharply to the side.

"You! How, how did you..." he trailed off. Golden eyes grew wide, then darted to the ceiling as the color started to drain from his face. "...How much did you see?"

Her razor smile grew, and his face blanched a shade whiter.

"Oh, I take it she's right then—"

"You're not supposed to be in here, _leave_. You quit, remember?"

"You do feel guilty~."

"I will not repeat myself again!"

" _Hm_?" Winkle asked, ignoring him and leaning toward the glass case again. "Yes, I think you're right, he's trying to change the subject now." She giggled and pointed at the skeletal face with a grin. "You're quick! I like you~."

"Obersturmführer!" He barked.

Winkle stared at the rotting face and said, "But she's right, isn't she? I did trust you, after all. If she knows that to be true, then the rest…"

An exasperated sigh came from behind her.

"What is the point of this game? If you're fishing for an apology, prepare to be sorely disappointed." Dok angrily pressed. She shrugged in reply. "Why come back after your little outburst yesterday, hm? Wouldn't you rather be _anywhere_ else?"

Softly, she said the first thing that came to mind, "Because I need to eat..."

It was strange hearing the truth. He gave a loud, nasty laugh at the admittance.

"I knew it. I knew you'd realize how rashly you acted and come—"

"—and you're lonely," Winkle finished, turning around with a knowing smile. Dok's mouth closed with a quick click, face stern. The smile hitching her lips widened as his twisted into a frown "What's wrong? That's what she told me~."

"Stop this foolishness," he snapped. "You're the one who came crawling back because you can't take care of yourself."

"And you're letting to a skeleton harp on your conscious because _no one else_ is around to listen to you~," she reminded in sing-song rhythm. At the words, Dok recoiled as though hit. Mouth pursing and nostrils flaring, he glared at her, but golden eyes soon glazed over in thought before glancing away. He didn't reach into his lab coat pocket. Winkle arched a curious eyebrow at him. "Hum," she perked up suddenly, turning back to the glass case. "Oh, sorry. I meant no offense, Mrs. Harker. Your company is far better than... _none_ at all."

"Enough already, you've made your point, Obersturmführer."

"And~."

Dok's glare resumed with frightening intensity.

"...You couldn't speak to the Major, could you?"

 _Shit_. The act wasn't enough of a distraction. He'd seen right through her.

"Ah…" she hesitated. Golden eyes narrowed into poisonous slits. To lie or not to lie, that was the question. "No...no I couldn't."

The truth slipped from her a second time. His brow pinched at the admittance, but annoyance more than anger seemed to line his face now.

Dok continued with a frown, "And you came back in desperation believing you could guilt me into feeding you, hm?"

"Well, that and my work has not been without benefits, or so you said," she reminded with a half smile. "It hasn't even been a whole day, and the place is a wreck—are you making weapons of war or testing them in the lab?"

"Ah, a little from column A, a little from column B," he muttered.

Despite the sour tone, Winkle caught the small tick at the corner of his mouth. That was her cue.

"We could start over," she offered, stepping toward him.

"Even after I've seen through your poorly crafted charade?" He asked.

"But the basics haven't changed: I still need to eat, and you…" she glanced back at Mina briefly. "You were right as usual, Dok. I am your assistant to be used as you will, _but_ it looks like you didn't enjoy the results of your last experiment that much either."

Silence fell for a beat.

"Ah, in retrospect," his began, jaw tense. "Events occurred without considering the full ramifications on one, or both, parties."

Her eyes grew wide. The admittance was vague but good. No, scratch that, unbelievable! Could she get more?

In mock confusion, Winkle tilted her head to the side and asked. "Um, whaa?"

"I may have acted out of self-interest," he restated bitterly.

"I know~," she assured with a sharp, satisfied smile. Having never heard the man apologize to anyone save the Major, this was the closest Winkle knew she'd ever get. Time to reward the effort. First, make a comparison then a proposal. "We both did, that's why our deal started. Redo?"

Mouth set in a tight line, his eyes scoured her face. Seeming to reach some silent conclusion, Dok's shoulders dipped as he breathed a sigh. She expected a begrudging yes or a new order snapped at her. Instead, Dok held out an open gloved hand. Winkle eyed him uncertainly.

"Blood and aid in exchange for your assistance?" He asked, unwilling to look her in the eye suddenly.

Grin slicing from ear to ear, Winkle nodded so hard her teeth rattled as she grabbed his hand. How different this was from the last time they'd made an arrangement.

"Deal," she answered.

After one shake, Dok jerked out of her grasp and stepped back beyond reach.

"Good," he clipped. Gesturing absently in the air, he turned and began to walk away. "You know what your duties are. Get to it."

And with that said, the Doktor left the cubicle. The moment his back disappeared Winkle fisted the air in triumph—the plan had worked! Even though he'd realized her ploy, he'd still fallen for it, or, more likely, allowed it to work regardless. Still, the plan had been a success: guilt could be used to motivate him. After spinning on the tips of her toes with glee, she slowed to faced the large specimen case once more.

Smiling at the encased creature, Winkle offered a small, "Thanks."

Of course, Mrs. Harker didn't reply. But the way dark, gooey eye sockets stared back was unnerving. Winkle wasn't sure how to feel about the rotting thing and the questions it aired now that she'd accomplished her goal. The source. The beginning. What to do?

Brow gathering and lips curling in disgust, Winkle backed away and grabbed the piece of cloth from the ground and threw it back over the case. There, much better. Out of sight, out of mind. Goodbye, Mina Harker.

* * *

The evening continued as many others had: she performed chores, and Dok ignored her existence. The grunt work of picking up scattered medical supplies, straightening gurneys, and restringing the torn cubicle curtain was as tedious it had ever been. Still, she worked diligently and sang to herself all the while. When the medical ward and laboratory were back in place, she headed toward the Cold Storage room to continue loading and unloading specimen jars. But when she opened the door, a gust of arctic air breezed passed, and the quiet hum of the freezer greeted her.

The Cold Storage thermostat, or whatever had been the cause of the outage, was fixed. The jars sat in the same place along the rows of metal shelves where she had left them. The blocks of ice remained on the floor, too. Eyeing the room, Winkle frowned. It didn't seem like a coincidence that the day after she'd left the thermostat worked. Did this mean that the Doktor could have fixed refrigeration unit whenever he saw fit? It seemed so. Mouth growing slack, Winkle realized that he hadn't thought she would return.

Oh. Well, honestly, she wouldn't have considered coming back willingly either until viewing the camera feed. Chest suddenly tight, Winkle grimaced and fisted the suit jacket over her still heart, not enjoying or understanding the feeling. Leaving the Cold Storage Room, she decided to busy herself with straightening books and files in the back of the lab instead. The work made her forget the strange sensation, and soon it dissipated as suddenly as it had come.

The Doktor hadn't stopped working by the time morning neared, and her reward was due. To get his attention, she headed to his office space and perched on the edge of the desk. When magnified eyes spared her a glance, she merely pointed to her mouth with a smile. Feed me.

"In a moment," he muttered. He stopped typing to pinch the bridge of his nose with a sigh. "Do you want this to end?"

Not expecting the question, she shrugged. He'd never genuinely asked for her honest opinion before without an ulterior motive.

"What do you mean?"

"This: being a poor excuse for a medical assistant," he clarified, sparing her a sideways glance.

"It isn't ideal, but you did say you liked my help."

"Yes, yes though beneficial here to a small degree due, you were made for other things. Honestly, you're never going to be the caliber of help I truly need and hiding out here is a waste of your skill set."

"That's...almost kind of you to say," Winkle noted, head tilting to the side uncertainty.

"Why the surprise?" he asked unamused.

"Well, you don't exactly have the best track record with the truth, or you know, bedside manner," she answered quickly before realizing her rudeness.

"And you're not a silver tongued devil yourself?" Dok chided. Winkle's mouth pinched to the side in a pout as she offered an apologetic glance. Face softening, he drew a breath and added in a calmer tone, "But we both know what I said is true."

"...I guess. And since I doubt you'd bring this up without thinking about it first, you have a plan?" She asked.

"Naturally."

"If it involves me taking off my pants again…" Winkle tried to joke.

"No, no. Nothing quite as...stimulating as that," he returned to her surprise. "If you want this to stop and have free run of the ship again, you have to win her respect in combat. That's all."

Simple and to the point. That sounded correct, but she still grimaced at the idea as memories of Zorin come to mind.

"But I wasn't made to fight her."

"Correct," he admitted. "But it is impossible? No."

"Okay…and that's because...?"

Giving another sigh, he answered with a question, "What's your specialty?"

"Marksmanship. But I can't just shoot her on the zeppelin! I'd start a full-out brawl onboard," she cried, throwing out her arms.

"Exactly. You're a long-range fighter who needs distance. So, if you want to have a chance, we need to get both of you off the ship. And the _best way_ to do _that_ …" he paused, looking at her.

Winkle thought aloud, "Is um...oh! Is by going on a grocery run!"

Dok smiled slightly and said, "Exactly, the two of you will be assigned to mess duty to fetch a shipment of meals."

Winkle arched a skeptical brow.

"Eh, isn't that kind of overkill having two Obersturmführers assigned to do a simple job?"

"Yes, it is unusual and might raise her suspicious, but that's your best chance to get her alone," he conceded. "Since you couldn't speak with him, I will get your assignments changed for a night."

While she couldn't get an audience with the Major, Dok certainly could without any trouble. Still, he wondered what he'd say to get an odd request like that to go through.

"What are you going to do?" She asked.

"Create a little incentive," he answered.

Frowning at the ambiguity, she asked, "...And this plan will work?"

"Of course, I mean, I can uphold my end. Once in the jungle, the rest is up to you," he offered.

"And why now?" she asked suddenly serious.

From her perch on the desk, Winkle leaned forward until they were eye level. Last time she accepted his help it had backfired horribly.

"Excuse me?" He replied, offended.

"Why help me out now, really?" She pressed, knowing it was disrespectful to question her superior and maker but his sudden change of heart required an answer, a real one.

Wide blue eyes searched his unwaveringly until he could hold her gaze no longer.

Mouth forming a tight line, he answered carefully, "Men are not created equal, so not all test subject are alike. Sometimes, even though they are imperfect, silly, and troublesome, one can come to find their absence unpleasant."

Golden eyes darted to her then away a second time to inspect that wall, the desk, anything other than her face. A wide, knowing smile lit Winkle's face.

"You missed me~."

"Don't be a pest about it," he snapped.

"You missed me~!" she repeated louder in a sing-songy tone and nudged his knee with the tip of her shoe.

Swatting her touch away, he asked tersely, "Do you want my help or not?"

"Yes!" She beamed and nodded so hard razor teeth chattered.

"Then stop being a nuisance and let's go. You can assist me with the preparations," Dok snapped as he rose to his feet.

Walking away from the desk, he turned and headed for the laboratory door, but stopped short as she dashed after and snared his arm with her own. Spine now ramrod-straight, he paused. Golden eyes stared down at her with an alarmed but otherwise unreadable expression. Winkle just smiled back widely and pointed to her mouth with a free hand. Feed me.

"Oh," he acknowledged, seeming to have forgotten the morning meal during their conversation. The muscles under her touch relaxed. "Right. Lead on then, you manipulative little thing. "

Arm in arm, Winkle led him to the Cold Storage room with a smile. Although his expression was tense and posture rigid, Dok did not order her to let go until they reached the freezer.

* * *

Notes

•I read _Dracula_ as a teen and didn't get it/like it (so that's where the 'fucking omg this shit is boooring' line of thought comes from for Winkle).Stupid Sexy Gary Oldman fooling ya into thinking original Dracula's a fine piece of ass. Now that I'm older, I still think the novel is boring but can appreciate the literary impact. MINA, DO YOU REALLY HAVE TO COPY THE FUCKING TRAIN SCHEDULES TO A T? Is THAT what people DID before the internet? FAK.

•Once again, Winkle's not that knowledgeable about things outside of Der Freischutz, shooting, and make'n deals. _Dracula_ isn't Winkle's main fandom either; tho it prolly should be. In the last two chapters she's been giving a lot of information she doesn't totally understand but uses what will help HER in the moment. She out for her own survival and pleasing her superiors, not figuring what's really going on. That's a part of Winkle's tragedy, I think.

•Also, the F.R.E.A.K.S. don't seem to be aware of how much they _suck_ at being vampires. So, like, I'm not sure if even the higher ranking members of Millennium (read: everybody but Major, Dok, and maybe Günsche) are in on the whole, you know, we're fighting Dracula, like, _THE DRACULA_ , thing.

•Luke speaks to Alucard about his status as a nightwalker/vampire, but still thinks he can LEGIT take Ally on. Ha. Then Luke nearly shits himself when he realized just how powerful Ally truly is and gets embarrassingly wrecked and regurgitated. (Testing, testing Hellsing's defenses 1, 2, 3).

•Jan is all gung-ho about murdering Hellsing Org. but isn't _totally_ surprised when Millennium terminates him. Dude is a tactician, after all. Rude AF, but he seemed to come to grips with the "hey, we're probably on a suicide mission" thing a little faster than Luke.

•Alhambra seemed pretty confident too until Ally get serious and eventually reads his mind. (Whether this was so Ally could find out about Mill via blood drinking, or Major was just bored and wanted to see someone die, idk, but info leak—It's the FUCKING Nazi's!—ensues.)

•Only Winkle is genuinely frightened of Ally when he shows up, but that's probably thanks to Major's cannon convo, "lol you gonna met the devil and die". Enter: Bait van Winkle. Fuck that episode; I'm so bias I can't watch it now.

•Zorin is SUPREMELY confident in her powers and disobeys Major's order to not underestimate Hellsing Org. ladies and charges the mansion anyway. By committing insubordination, she becomes the catalyst that makes Seras embrace the dark side full-fledged vampirism (read:character development). Break the cutie troupe activate!

•And Gunsche just kinda seems HAPPY about death by the end...so idk WTF Millennium did to him. I feel like he knew more than the F.R.E.A.K.S since because trump card and Major seemed to treat him like a dog/pet and would probably tell him shit offhandedly (?).

•Since the majority of them are pretty fucking confident up until their inevitable deaths, it doesn't seem like most of Mill's members are fully aware of what's going on other than "We're going to war and fuck Hellsing!". They're chess pieces. Everyone in Millennium is manipulated and fed JUST enough information to keep them riled and ready for combat but are never actually given the whole plan (so Major can keep changing his plans in order to plan around their enemy's plans bullshit). You know, it's all part of How to Make a Cult 101.

Yo just, go read this on A03, the site is just is much better.


End file.
